SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS. 


BY 


OLIYEE  WENDELL  HOLMES, 


OF  THE 

UHJTEESITT 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR    AND     FIELDS 

1862. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1861,  by 

OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


University  Press,  Cambridge : 
Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


TO 

THE    MOST    INDULGENT    OF    READERS, 
THE    KINDEST    OF    CRITICS, 

MY  BELOVED  MOTHEE, 

ALL    THAT    IS    LEAST    UNWORTHY    OF    HER 
IN    THIS    VOLUME 

*  s    BeMcatetJ 

BY    HER    AFFECTIONATE    SON. 


THE  piping  of  our  slender,  peaceful  reeds 

Whispers  uncared  for  while  the  trumpets  bray  ; 

Song  is  thin  air  ;  our  hearts'  exulting  play 

Beats  time  but  to  the  tread  of  marching  deeds, 

Following  the  mighty  van  that  Freedom  leads, 

Her  glorious  standard  flaming  to  the  day  ! 

The  crimsoned  pavement  where  a  hero  bleeds 

Breathes  nobler  lessons  than  the  poet's  lay. 

Strong  arms,  broad  breasts,  brave  hearts,  are  better  worth 

Than  strains  that  sing  the  ravished  echoes  dumb. 

Hark  !  't  is  the  loud  reverberating  drum 

Rolls  o'er  the  prairied  West,  the  rock-bound  North  : 

The  myriad-handed  Future  stretches  forth 

Its  shadowy  palms.     Behold,  we  come,  — we  come  ! 

Turn  o'er  these  idle  leaves.     Such  toys  as  these 

Were  not  unsought  for,  as,  in  languid  dreams, 

We  lay  beside  our  lotus-feeding  streams, 

Aad  nursed  our  fancies  in  forgetful  ease. 

It  matters  little  if  they  pall  or  please, 

Dropping  untimely,  while  the  sudden  gleams 

Glare  from  the  mustering  clouds  whose  blackness  seems 

Too  swollen  to  hold  its  lightning  from  the  trees. 

Yet,  in  some  lull  of  passion,  when  at  last 

These  calm  revolving  moons  that  come  and  go  — 

Turning  our  months  to  years,  they  creep  so  slow  — 

Have  brought  us  rest,  the  not  unwelcome  past 

May  flutter  to  thee  through  these  leaflets,  cast 

On  the  wild  winds  that  all  around  us  blow. 

MAT  1st,  1861. 


CONTENTS. 

AGNES.  PAGB 

PART  I.      THE  KNIGHT 1 

PART  n.    THE  MAIDEN 5 

PART  HI.  THE  CONQUEST 13 

PART  IV.  THE  RESCUE 17 

PART  V.     THE  REWARD    .• 22 

PART  VI.   CONCLUSION 26 

THE  PLOUGHMAN 32 

A  POEM  FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  PITTSFIELD  CEM 
ETERY       35 

PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

SPRING 41 

THE  STUDY 44 

THE  BELLS 48 

NON-RESISTANCE 50 

THE  MORAL  BULLY 51 

THE  MIND'S  DIET 53 

OUR  LIMITATIONS 55 

THE  OLD  PLAYER 56 

THE  ISLAND  RUIN 61 

THE  BANKER'S  DINNER 67 

THE  MYSTERIOUS  ILLNESS              75 


viii  CONTENTS. 

A  MOTHER'S  SECRET 79 

THE  DISAPPOINTED  STATESMAN 84 

THE  SECRET  OF  THE  STARS 87 

To  GOVERNOR  SWAIN 91 

To  AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND 94 

VIGNETTES. 

AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  WORDSWORTH      ....  96 

AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  MOORE 101 

AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  KEATS 104 

AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  SHELLEY 106 

AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  A  COURSE  OF  LECTURES    .        .        .  108 

THE  HUDSON 110 

A  POEM  FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  AMERICAN  MEDICAL 

ASSOCIATION 112 

THE  NEW  EDEN 117 

A  SENTIMENT 124 

SEMICENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION  OF  THE  NEW  ENGLAND  SO 
CIETY    125 

ODE  FOR  WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY 128 

CLASS  OF  '29 131 

FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BURNS  CLUB        ....  133 

FOR  THE  BURNS  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION      .        .        .  136 

BIRTHDAY  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER 140 

MEETING  OF  THE  ALUMNI  OF  HARVARD  COLLEGE    .        .  144 

THE  PARTING  SONG 151 

BOSTON  COMMON.  —  THREE  PICTURES         ....  153 

LATTER-DAY  WARNINGS 156 

PROLOGUE 159 

THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  SEA 163 

ODE  FOR  A  SOCIAL  MEETING,  WITH  SLIGHT  ALTERATIONS 

BY  A  TEETOTALER  ...                                        ,  166 


CONTENTS.  IX 

THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE:  OR  THE  WONDERFUL  "  ONE- 

Hoss  SHAY" 167 

ESTIVATION 173 

CONTENTMENT 174 

PARSON  TURELL'S  LEGACY 178 

DE  SAUTY 186 

THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS 189 

MARE  RUBRUM 192 

WHAT  WE  ALL  THINK 195 

SPRING  HAS  COME 198 

A  GOOD  TIME  GOING! 202 

THE  LAST  BLOSSOM       ...                ....  205 

"THE  BOYS" 208 

THE  OPENING  OF  THE  PIANO      ......  211 

MIDSUMMER 214 

A  PARTING  HEALTH.    To  J.  L.  MOTLEY     ....  216 

A  GOOD-BY.    To  J.  R.  LOWELL 218 

AT  A  BIRTHDAY  FESTIVAL.    To  J.  R.  LOWELL        .        .  220 

A  BIRTHDAY  TRIBUTE.    To  J.  F.  CLARKE    ....  222 

THE  GRAY  CHIEF 224 

THE  LAST  LOOK 226 

IN  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES  WENTWORTH  UPHAM,  JUNIOR  .  229 

MARTHA 232 

SUN  AND  SHADOW 234 

THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS 236 

THE  Two  ARMIES 238 

FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  NATIONAL  SANITARY  ASSOCI 
ATION    241 

MUSA 244 

THE  VOICELESS 248 

THE  CROOKED  FOOTPATH 250 


x  CONTENTS. 

THE  Two  STREAMS 253 

EOBINSON  OF  LEYDEN 256 

SAINT  ANTHONY  THE  REFORMER 258 

Avis 260 

IRIS,  HER  BOOK 264 

UNDER  THE  VIOLETS 267 

THE  PROMISE 270 

THE  LIVING  TEMPLE 272 

HYMN  OF  TRUST 275 

A  SUN-DAY  HYMN 277 

A  VOICE  OF  THE  LOYAL  NORTH 279 

BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT  FOR  SISTER  CAROLINE    .  282 

UNDER  THE  WASHINGTON  ELM,  CAMBRIDGE         .        .        .  285 

INTERNATIONAL  ODE 287 

FREEDOM,  OUR  QUEEN       .        .        .        .    *   .        .        .        .  289 

ARMY  HYMN  ..........  291 

PARTING  HYMN 293 

THE  FLOWER  OF  LIBERTY 295 

THE  SWEET  LITTLE  MAN 297 

VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 301 

UNION  AND  LIBERTY         .        .                                                .  304 


NOTE  TO  AGNES 307 


AGNES. 


PART    FIRST. 

THE  KNIGHT. 

THE  tale  I  tell  is  gospel  true, 

As  all  the  bookmen  know, 
And  pilgrims  who  have  strayed  to  view 

The  wrecks  still  left  to  show. 

The  old,  old  story,  —  fair,  and  young, 
And  fond,  —  and  not  too  wise,  — 

That  matrons  tell,  with  sharpened  tongue, 
To  maids  with  downcast  eyes. 

Ah  !  maidens  err  and  matrons  warn 

Beneath  the  coldest  sky  ; 
Love  lurks  amid  the  tasselled  corn 

As  in  the  bearded  rye  ! 

1  A 


AGNES. 

But  who  would  dream  our  sober  sires 
Had  learned  the  old  world's  ways, 
And  warmed  their  hearths  with  lawless  fires 
4 .  Jn  Shirley's  homespun  days  ? 


poet's  pictured  trance 
His  idle  rhymes  recite,  — 
This  old  New-England-born  romance 
Of  Agnes  and  the  Knight ; 

Yet,  known  to  all  the  country  round, 
Their  home  is  standing  still, 

Between  Wachusett's  lonely  mound 
And  Shawmut's  threefold  hill. 

—  One  hour  we  rumble  on  the  rail, 
One  half-hour  guide  the  rein, 

We  reach  at  last,  o'er  hill  and  dale, 
The  village  on  the  plain. 

With  blackening  wall  and  mossy  roof, 
With  stained  and  warping  floor, 

A  stately  mansion  stands  aloof 
And  bars  its  haughty  door. 


AGNES. 

This  lowlier  portal  may  be  tried, 
That  breaks  the  gable  wall ; 

And  lo  !  with  arches  opening  wide, 
Sir  Harry  Frankland's  hall ! 

*T  was  in  the  second  George's  day 
They  sought  the  forest  shade, 

The  knotted  trunks  they  cleared  away, 
The  massive  beams  they  laid, 

They  piled  the  rock-hewn  chimney  tall, 
They  smoothed  the  terraced  ground, 

They  reared  the  marble-pillared  wall 
That  fenced  the  mansion  round. 

Far  stretched  beyond  the  village  bound 
The  Master's  broad  domain  ; 

With  page  and  valet,  horse  and  hound, 
He  kept  a  goodly  train. 

And,  all  the  midland  county  through, 
The  ploughman  stopped  to  gaze 

Whene'er  his  chariot  swept  in  view 
Behind  the  shining  bays, 


AGNES. 

With  mute  obeisance,  grave  and  slow, 

Repaid  by  nod  polite,  — 
For  such  the  way  with  high  and  low 

Till  after  Concord  fight. 

Nor  less  to  courtly  circles  known 
That  graced  the  three-hilled  town 

With  far-off  splendors  of  the  Throne, 
And  glimmerings  from  the  Crown  ; 

Wise  Phipps,  who  held  the  seals  of  state 

For  Shirley  over  sea ; 
Brave  Knowles,  whose  press-gang  moved  of  late 

The  King  Street  mob's  decree  ; 

And  judges  grave,  and  colonels  grand, 

Fair  dames  and  stately  men, 
The  mighty  people  of  the  land, 

The  "  World  "  of  there  and  then. 

'T  was  strange  no  Chloe's  "  beauteous  Form," 

And  «  Eyes'  coelestial  Blew," 
This  Strephon  of  the  West  could  warm, 

No  Nymph  his  Heart  subdue  ! 


AGXES. 

Perchance  lie  wooed  as  gallants  use, 
"Whom  fleeting  loves  enchain, 

But  still  unfettered,  free  to  choose, 
Would  brook  no  bridle-rein. 

He  saw  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 

But  smiled  alike  on  all ; 
No  band  his  roving  foot  might  snare, 

No  rin£  his  hand  enthrall. 


PART    SECOND. 

THE  MAIDEN. 

WHY  seeks  the  knight  that  rocky  cape 

Beyond  the  Bay  of  Lynn  ? 
What  chance  his  wayward  course  may  shape 

To  reach  its  village  inn  ? 

No  story  tells  ;  whate'er  we  guess, 

The  past  lies  deaf  and  still, 
But  Fate,  who  rules  to  blight  or  bless, 

Can  lead  us  where  she  will. 


AGNES. 

Make  way  !     Sir  Harry's  coach  and  four, 
And  liveried  grooms  that  ride  ! 

They  cross  the  ferry,  touch  the  shore 
On  Winnisimmet's  side. 

They  hear  the  wash  on  Chelsea  Beach,  — 

The  level  marsh  they  pass, 
Where  miles  on  miles  the  desert  reach 

Is  rough  with  bitter  grass. 

The  shining  horses  foam  and  pant, 

And  now  the  smells  begin 
Of  fishy  Swampscot,  salt  Nahant, 

And  leather-scented  Lynn. 

Next,  on  their  left,  the  slender  spires, 
And  glittering  vanes,  that  crown 

The  home  of  Salem's  frugal  sires, 
The  old,  witch-haunted  town. 

So  onward,  o'er  the  rugged  way 
That  runs  through  rocks  and  sand, 

Showered  by  the  tempest-driven  spray, 
From  bays  on  either  hand, 


AGXES. 

That  shut  between  their  outstretched  arms 

The  crews  of  Marblehead, 
The  lords  of  ocean's  watery  farms, 

Who  plough  the  waves  for  bread. 

At  last  the  ancient  inn  appears, 

The  spreading  elm  below, 
Whose  flapping  sign  these  fifty  years 

Has  seesawed  to  and  fro. 

How  fair  the  azure  fields  in  sight 

Before  the  low-browed  inn  ! 
The  tumbling  billows  fringe  with  light 

The  crescent  shore  of  Lynn  ; 

Naliant  thrusts  outward  through  the  waves 

Her  arm  of  yellow  sand, 
And  breaks  the  roaring  surge  that  braves 

The  gauntlet  on  her  hand ; 

With  eddying  whirl  the  waters  lock 

Yon  treeless  mound  forlorn, 
The  sharp-winged  sea-fowl's  breeding-rock, 

That  fronts  the  Spouting  Horn  ; 


AGNES. 

Then  free  the  white-sailed  shallops  glide, 

And  wide  the  ocean  smiles, 
Till,  shoreward  bent,  his  streams  divide 

The  two  bare  Misery  Isles. 

The  master's  silent  signal  stays 

The  wearied  cavalcade ; 
The  coachman  reins  his  smoking  bays 

Beneath  the  elm-tree's  shade. 

A  gathering  on  the  village  green  ! 

The  cocked-hats  crowd  to  see, 
On  legs  in  ancient  velveteen, 

With  buckles  at  the  knee  ! 

A  clustering  round  the  tavern-door 

Of  square-toed  village  boys, 
Still  wearing,  as  their  grandsires  wore, 

The  old-world  corduroys ! 

A  scampering  at  the  "  Fountain  "  inn,  — 
A  rush  of  great  and  small,  — 

With  hurrying  servants'  mingled  din 
And  screaming  matron's  call ! 


AGNES. 

Poor  Agnes  !  with  her  work  half  done 

They  caught  her  unaware  ; 
As,  humbly,  like  a  praying  nun, 

She  knelt  upon  the  stair ; 

Bent  o'er  the  steps,  with  lowliest  mien 

She  knelt,  but  not  to  pray,  — 
Her  little  hands  must  keep  them  clean, 

And  wash  their  stains  away. 

A  foot,  an  ankle,  bare  and  white 

Her  girlish  shapes  betrayed,  — 
"  Ha !  Nymphs  and  Graces ! "  spoke  the  Knight ; 

"  Look  up,  my  beauteous  Maid  ! " 

She  turned,  —  a  reddening  rose  in  bud, 

Its  calyx  half  withdrawn,  — 
Her  cheek  on  fire  with  damasked  blood 

Of  girlhood's  glowing  dawn ! 

He  searched  her  features  through  and  through, 

As  royal  lovers  look 
On  lowly  maidens,  when  they  woo 

"Without  the  ring  and  book. 
1* 


10  AGNES. 

"  Come  hither,  Fair  one  !  Here,  my  Sweet ! 

Nay,  prithee,  look  not  down  ! 
Take  this  to  shoe  those  little  feet,"  — 

He  tossed  a  silver  crown. 

A  sudden  paleness  struck  her  brow,  — 

A  swifter  flush  succeeds  ; 
It  burns  her  cheek  ;  it  kindles  now 

Beneath  her  golden  beads. 

She  flitted,  but  the  glittering  eye 

Still  sought  the  lovely  face. 
Who  was  she  ?     What,  and  whence  ?  and  why 

Doomed  to  such  menial  place  ? 

A  skipper's  daughter,  —  so  they  said,  — 

Left  orphan  by  the  gale 
That  cost  the  fleet  of  Marblehead 

And  Gloucester  thirty  sail. 

Ah !  many  a  lonely  home  is  found 

Along  the  Essex  shore, 
That  cheered  its  goodman  outward  bound, 

And  sees  his  face  no  more  ! 


AGNES.  11 

"  Not  so,"  the  matron  whispered,  —  "  sure 

No  orphan  girl  is  she,  — 
The  Surraige  folk  are  deadly  poor 

Since  Edward  left  the  sea, 

"  And  Mary,  with  her  growing  brood, 

Has  work  enough  to  do 
To  find  the  children  clothes  and  food 

With  Thomas,  John,  and  Hugh. 

"  This  girl  of  Mary's,  growing  tall,  — 
(Just  turned  her  sixteenth  year,)  — 

To  earn  her  bread  and  help  them  all, 
Would  work  as  housemaid  here." 

So  Agnes,  with  her  golden  beads, 

And  naught  beside  as  dower, 
Grew  at  the  wayside  with  the  weeds. 

Herself  a  garden-flower. 

'T  was  strange,  't  was  sad,  —  so  fresh,  so  fair ! 

Thus  Pity's  voice  began. 
Such  grace  !  an  angel's  shape  and  air  ! 

The  half-heard  whisper  ran. 


12  AGNES. 

For  eyes  could  see  in  George's  time, 

As  now  in  later  days, 
And  lips  could  shape,  in  prose  and  rhyme, 

The  honeyed  breath  of  praise. 

No  time  to  woo !     The  train  must  go 

Long  ere  the  sun  is  down, 
To  reach,  before  the  night-winds  blow, 

The  many-steepled  town. 

T  is  midnight,  —  street  and  square  are  still ; 

Dark  roll  the  whispering  waves 
That  lap  the  piers  beneath  the  hill 

Ridged  thick  with  ancient  graves. 

Ah,  gentle  sleep  !  thy  hand  will  smooth 

The  weary  couch  of  pain, 
When  all  thy  poppies  fail  to  soothe 

The  lover's  throbbing  brain  ! 

'T  is  morn,  —  the  orange-mantled  sun 
Breaks  through  the  fading  gray, 

And  long  and  loud  the  Castle  gun 
Peals  o'er  the  glistening  bay. 


AGNES. 


"  Thank  God  't  is  day  !  "     With  eager  eye 

He  hails  the  morning's  shine  :  — 
"  If  art  can  win,  or  gold  can  buy, 
The  maiden  shall  be  mine  !  " 


PART    THIRD. 

THE  CONQUEST. 

"  WHO  saw  this  hussy  when  she  came  ? 

What  is  the  wench,  and  who  ?  " 
They  whisper.     "  Ag?ies,  —  is  her  name  ? 

Pray  what  has  she  to  do  ?  " 

The  housemaids  parley  at  the  gate, 

The  scullions  on  the  stair, 
And  in  the  footmen's  grave  debate 

The  butler  deigns  to  share. 

Black  Dinah,  stolen  when  a  child, 

And  sold  on  Boston  pier, 
Grown  up  in  service,  petted,  spoiled, 

Speaks  in  the  coachman's  ear  : 


14  AGNES. 

"  What,  all  this  household  at  his  will  ? 

And  all  are  yet  too  few  ? 
More  servants,  and  more  servants  still,  — 

This  pert  young  madam  too  !  " 

"  Servant !  fine  servant !  "  laughed  aloud 
The  man  of  coach  and  steeds  ; 

"  She  looks  too  fair,  she  steps  too  proud, 
This  girl  with  golden  beads ! 

"  I  tell  you,  you  may  fret  and  frown, 
And  call  her  what  you  choose, 

You  '11  find  my  Lady  in  her  gown, 
Your  Mistress  in  her  shoes  !  " 

Ah,  gentle  maidens,  free  from  blame, 
God  grant  you  never  know 

The  little  whisper,  loud  with  shame, 
That  makes  the  world  your  foe  ! 

Why  tell  the  lordly  flatterer's  art, 
That  won  the  maiden's  ear,  — 

The  fluttering  of  the  frightened  heart, 
The  blush,  the  smile,  the  tear  ? 


AGNES.  15 

Alas  !  it  were  the  saddening  tale 

That  every  language  knows,  — 
The  wooing  wind,  the  yielding  sail, 

The  sunbeam  and  the  rose. 

And  now  the  gown  of  sober  stuff 

Has  changed  to  fair  brocade, 
"With  broidered  hem,  and  hanging  cuff, 

And  flower  of  silken  braid  ; 

And  clasped  around  her  blanching  wrist 

A  jewelled  bracelet  shines, 
Her  flowing  tresses'  massive  twist 

A  glittering  net  confines  ; 

And  mingling  with  their  truant  wave 

A  fretted  chain  is  hung  ; 
But  ah  !  the  gift  her  mother  gave,  — 

Its  beads  are  all  unstrung ! 

Her  place  is  at  the  master's  board, 

Where  none  disputes  her  claim ; 
She  walks  beside  the  mansion's  lord, 

His  bride  in  all  but  name. 


1 6  AGNES. 

The  bu?y  tongues  have  ceased  to  talk, 
Or  speak  in  softened  tone, 

So  gracious  in  her  daily  walk 
The  angel  light  has  shown. 

No  want  that  kindness  may  relieve 
Assails  her  heart  in  vain, 

The  lifting  of  a  ragged  sleeve 
Will  check  her  palfrey's  rein. 

A  thoughtful  calm,  a  quiet  grace 
In  every  movement  shown, 

Reveal  her  moulded  for  the  place 
She  may  not  call  her  own. 

And,  save  that  on  her  youthful  brow 
There  broods  a  shadowy  care, 

No  matron  sealed  with  holy  vow 
In  all  the  land  so  fair  ! 


AGXES.  17 


PART    FOURTH. 

THE  RESCUE. 

A  SHIP  comes  foaming  up  the  bay, 

Along  the  pier  she  glides  ; 
Before  her  furrow  melts  away, 

A  courier  mounts  and  rides. 

"  Haste,  Haste,  post  Haste ! "  the  letters  bear ; 

"  Sir  Harry  Frankland,  These." 
Sad  news  to  tell  the  loving  pair ! 

The  knight  must  cross  the  seas. 

"  Alas  !  we  part !  "  —  the  lips  that  spoke 

Lost  all  their  rosy  red, 
As  when  a  crystal  cup  is  broke, 

And  all  its  wine  is  shed. 

"  Nay,  droop  not  thus,  —  where'er,"  he  cried, 

"  I  go  by  land  or  sea, 
My  love,  my  life,  my  joy,  my  pride, 

Thy  place  is  still  by  me  !  " 

B 


18  AGNES. 

Through  town  and  city,  far  and  wide, 
Their  wandering  feet  have  strayed, 

From  Alpine  lake  to  ocean  tide, 
And  cold  Sierra's  shade. 

At  length  they  see  the  waters  gleam 
Amid  the  fragrant  bowers 

Where  Lisbon  mirrors  in  the  stream 
Her  belt  of  ancient  towers. 

Red  is  the  orange  on  its  bough, 
To-morrow's  sun  shall  fling 

O'er  Cintra's  hazel-shaded  brow 
The  flush  of  April's  wing. 

The  streets  are  loud  with  noisy  mirth, 
They  dance  on  every  green ; 

The  morning's  dial  marks  the  birth 
Of  proud  Braganza's  queen. 

At  eve  beneath  their  pictured  dome 
The  gilded  courtiers  throng  ; 

The  broad  moidores  have  cheated  Rome 
Of  all  her  lords  of  song. 


AGNES.  19 

Ah  !  Lisbon  dreams  not  of  the  day  — 
Pleased  with  her  painted  scenes  — 

When  all  her  towers  shall  slide  away 
As  now  these  canvas  screens  ! 

The  spring  has  passed,  the  summer  fled, 

And  yet  they  linger  still, 
Though  autumn's  rustling  leaves  have  spread 

The  flank  of  Cintra's  hill. 

The  town  has  learned  their  Saxon  name, 

And  touched  their  English  gold, 
Nor  tale  of  doubt  nor  hint  of  blame 

From  over  sea  is  told. 

Three  hours  the  first  November  dawn 

Has  climbed  with  feeble  ray 
Through  mists  like  heavy  curtains  drawn 

Before  the  darkened  day. 

How  still  the  muffled  echoes  sleep  ! 

Hark  !  hark  !  a  hollow  sound,  — 
A  noise  like  chariots  rumbling  deep 

Beneath  the  solid  ground. 

i^2: 

***    Or    THE 

fUHIVEECITTJj 
^rn^-rfte/ 


20  AGNES. 

The  channel  lifts,  the  water  slides 

And  bares  its  bar  of  sand, 
Anon  a  mountain  billow  strides 

And  crashes  o'er  the  land. 

The  turrets  lean,  the  steeples  reel 
Like  masts  on  ocean's  swell, 

And  clash  a  long  discordant  peal, 
The  death-doomed  city's  knell. 

The  pavement  bursts,  the  earth  upheaves 
Beneath  the  staggering  town ! 

The  turrets  crack  —  the  castle  cleaves  — 
The  spires  come  rushing  down. 

Around,  the  lurid  mountains  glow 
With  strange  unearthly  gleams  ; 

While  black  abysses  gape  below, 
Then  close  in  jagged  seams. 

The  earth  has  folded  like  a  wave, 
And  thrice  a  thousand  score, 

Clasped,  shroudless,  in  their  closing  grave, 
The  sun  shall  see  no  more  ! 


AGNES.  21 

And  all  is  over.     Street  and  square 

In  ruined  heaps  are  piled ; 
Ah !  where  is  she,  so  frail,  so  fair, 

Amid  the  tumult  wild  ? 

Unscathed,  she  treads  the  wreck-piled  street, 

Whose  narrow  gaps  afford 
A  pathway  for  her  bleeding  feet, 

To  seek  her  absent  lord. 

A  temple's  broken  walls  arrest 

Her  wild  and  wandering  eyes ; 
Beneath  its  shattered  portal  pressed, 

Her  lord  unconscious  lies. 

The  power  that  living  hearts  obey 

Shall  lifeless  blocks  withstand  ? 
Love  led  her  footsteps  where  he  lay,  — 

Love  nerves  her  woman's  hand  : 

One  cry,  —  the  marble  shaft  she  grasps,  — 
Up  heaves  the  ponderous  stone  :  — 

He  breathes,  —  her  fainting  form  he  clasps,  — 
Her  life  has  bought  his  own  ! 


22  AGNES. 


PART    FIFTH. 

THE    REWARD. 

How  like  the  starless  night  of  death 

Our  being's  brief  eclipse, 
When  faltering  heart  and  failing  breath 

Have  bleached  the  fading  lips ! 

She  lives  !     "What  guerdon  shall  repay 

His  debt  of  ransomed  life  ? 
One  word  can  charm  all  wrongs  away,  — 

The  sacred  name  of  WIFE  ! 

The  love  that  won  her  girlish  charms 
Must  shield  her  matron  fame, 

And  write  beneath  the  Frankland  arms 
The  village  beauty's  name. 

Go,  call  the  priest !  no  vain  delay 

Shall  dim  the  sacred  ring  ! 
Who  knows  what  change  the  passing  day, 

The  fleeting  hour,  may  bring  ? 


AGNES.  .  23 

Before  the  holy  altar  bent, 

There  kneels  a  goodly  pair ; 
A  stately  man,  of  high  descent, 

A  woman,  passing  fair. 

No  jewels  lend  the  blinding  sheen 

That  meaner  beauty  needs, 
But  on  her  bosom  heaves  unseen 

A  string  of  golden  beads. 

The  vow  is  spoke,  —  the  prayer  is  said,  — 

And  with  a  gentle  pride 
The  Lady  Agnes  lifts  her  head, 

Sir  Harry  Frankland's  bride. 

No  more  her  faithful  heart  shall  bear 

Those  griefs  so  meekly  borne,  — 
The  passing  sneer,  the  freezing  stare, 

The  icy  look  of  scorn  ; 

No  more  the  blue-eyed  English  dames 

Their  haughty  lips  shall  curl, 
Whene'er  a  hissing  whisper  names 

The  poor  New-England  girl. 


21  AGNES. 

But  stay  !  —  his  mother's  haughty  brow, 
The  pride  of  ancient  race,  — 

Will  plighted  faith,  and  holy  vow, 
Win  back  her  fond  embrace  ? 

Too  well  she  knew  the  saddening  tale 
Of  love  no  vow  had  blest, 

That  turned  his  blushing  honors  pale 
And  stained  his  knightly  crest. 

They  seek  his  Northern  home,  —  alas  ! 

He  goes  alone  before  ;  — 
His  own  dear  Agnes  may  not  pass 

The  proud,  ancestral  door. 

He  stood  before  the  stately  dame  ; 

He  spoke  ;  she  calmly  heard, 
But  not  to  pity,  nor  to  blame  ; 

She  breathed  no  single  word. 

He  told  his  love,  —  her  faith  betrayed  ; 

She  heard  with  tearless  eyes ; 
Could  she  forgive  the  erring  maid  ? 

She  stared  in  cold  surprise. 


AGNES.  25 

How  fond  her  heart,  he  told,  —  how  true  ; 

The  haughty  eyelids  fell ;  — 
The  kindly  deeds  she  loved  to  do  ; 

She  murmured,  "  It  is  well." 

But  when  he  told  that  fearful  day, 

And  how  her  feet  were  led 
To  where  entombed  in  life  he  lay, 

The  breathing  with  the  dead, 

And  how  she  bruised  her  tender  breasts 

Against  the  crushing  stone, 
That  still  the  strong-armed  clown  protests 

No  man  can  lift  alone,  — 

0  then  the  frozen  spring  was  broke  ; 
By  turns  she  wept  and  smiled ;  — 

"  Sweet  Agnes  !  "  so  the  mother  spoke, 
"  God  bless  my  angel  child  ! 

"  She  saved  thee  from  the  jaws  of  death,  — 
'T  is  thine  to  right  her  wrongs  ; 

1  tell  thee,  —  I,  who  gave  thee  breath,  — 
To  her  thy  life  belongs  !  " 


26  AGNES. 

Thus  Agnes  won  her  noble  name, 
Her  lawless  lover's  hand  ; 

The  lowly  maiden  so  became 
A  lady  in  the  land ! 


PART    SIXTH. 

CONCLUSION. 

THE  tale  is  done  ;  it  little  needs 

To  track  their  after  ways, 
And  string  again  the  golden  beads 

Of  love's  uncounted  days. 

They  leave  the  fair  ancestral  isle 
For  bleak  New  England's  shore  ; 

How  gracious  is  the  courtly  smile 
Of  all  who  frowned  before  ! 

Again  through  Lisbon's  orange  bowers 
They  watch  the  river's  gleam, 

And  shudder  as  her  shadowy  towers 
Shake  in  the  trembling  stream. 


AGNES.  27 

Fate  parts  at  length  the  fondest  pair ; 

His  cheek,  alas  !  grows  pale  ; 
The  breast  that  trampling  death  could  spare 

His  noiseless  shafts  assail. 

He  longs  to  change  the  heaven  of  blue 

For  England's  clouded  sky,  — 
To  breathe  the  air  his  boyhood  knew  ; 

He  seeks  them  but  to  die. 

—  Hard  by  the  terraced  hill-side  town, 

Where  healing  streamlets  run, 
Still  sparkling  with  their  old  renown,  — 

The  «  Waters  of  the  Sun,"  — 

The  Lady  Agnes  raised  the  stone 

That  marks  his  honored  grave, 
And  there  Sir  Harry  sleeps  alone 

By  Wiltshire  Avon's  wave. 

The  home  of  early  love  was  dear ; 

She  sought  its  peaceful  shade, 
And  kept  her  state  for  many  a  year, 

With  none  to  make  afraid. 


28  AGNES. 

At  last  the  evil  days  were  come 
That  saw  the  red  cross  fall ; 

She  hears  the  rebels'  rattling  drum,  — 
Farewell  to  Frankland  Hall ! 

—  I  tell  you,  as  my  tale  began, 

The  Hall  is  standing  still ; 
And  you,  kind  listener,  maid  or  man, 

May  see  it  if  you  will. 

The  box  is  glistening  huge  and  green, 

Like  trees  the  lilacs  grow, 
Three  elms  high-arching  still  are  seen, 

And  one  lies  stretched  below. 

The  hangings,  rough  with  velvet  flowers, 

Flap  on  the  latticed  wall ; 
And  o'er  the  mossy  ridge-pole  towers 

The  rock-hewn  chimney  tall. 

The  doors  on  mighty  hinges  clash 
With  massive  bolt  and  bar, 

The  heavy  English-moulded  sash 
Scarce  can  the  night-winds  jar. 


AGXES.  29 

Behold  the  chosen  room  he  sought 

Alone,  to  fast  and  pray, 
Each  year,  as  chill  November  brought 

The  dismal  earthquake  day. 

There  hung  the  rapier  blade  he  wore, 

Bent  in  its  flattened  sheath  ; 
The  coat  the  shrieking  woman  tore 

Caught  in  her  clenching  teeth  ;  — 

The  coat  with  tarnished  silver  lace 

She  snapped  at  as  she  slid, 
And  down  upon  her  death-white  face 

Crashed  the  huge  coffin's  lid. 

A  graded  terrace  yet  remains  ; 

If  on  its  turf  you  stand 
And  look  along  the  wooded  plains 

That  stretch  on  either  hand, 

The  broken  forest  walls  define 

A  dim,  receding  view, 
Where,  on  the  far  horizon's  line 

He  cut  his  vista  through. 


SO  AGNES. 

If  further  story  you  shall  crave, 

Or  ask  for  living  proof, 
Go  see  old  Julia,  born  a  slave 

Beneath  Sir  Harry's  roof. 

She  told  me  half  that  I  have  told, 

And  she  remembers  well 
The  mansion  as  it  looked  of  old 

Before  its  glories  fell ;  — 

The  box,  when  round  the  terraced  square 
Its  glossy  wall  was  drawn  ; 

The  climbing  vines,  the  snow-balls  fair, 
The  roses  on  the  lawn. 

And  Julia  says,  with  truthful  look 
Stamped  on  .her  wrinkled  face, 

That  in  her  own  black  hands  she  took 
The  coat  with  silver  lace. 

And  you  may  hold  the  story  light, 

Or,  if  you  like,  believe  ; 
But  there  it  was,  the  woman's  bite,  — 

A  mouthful  from  the  sleeve. 


AGXES.  31 

Now  go  your  ways  :  —  I  need  not  tell 

The  moral  of  my  rhyme  ; 
But,  youths  and  maidens,  ponder  well, 

This  tale  of  olden  tune ! 


THE    PLOUGHMAN. 

(ANNIVERSARY    OF    THE    BERKSHIRE    AGRICULTURAL    SOCIETY 
OCT.    4,    1849.) 

CLEAR  the  brown  path,  to  meet  his  coulter's  gleam ! 
Lo !  on  he  comes,  behind  his  smoking  team, 
With  toil's  bright  dew-drops  on  his  sunburnt  brow, 
The  lord  of  earth,  the  hero  of  the  plough ! 

First  in  the  field  before  the  reddening  sun, 
Last  in  the  shadows  when  the  day  is  done, 
Line  after  line,  along  the  bursting  sod, 
Marks  the  broad  acres  where  his  feet  have  trod ; 
Still,  where  he  treads,  the  stubborn  clods  divide, 
The  smooth,  fresh  furrow  opens  deep  and  wide ; 
Matted  and  dense  the  tangled  turf  upheaves, 
Mellow  and  dark  the  ridgy  cornfield  cleaves ; 
Up  the  steep  hill-side,  where  the  laboring  train 
Slants  the  long  track  that  scores  the  level  plain ; 


THE   PLOUGHMAN.  33 

Through  the  moist  valley,  clogged  with  oozing  clay, 
The  patient  convoy  breaks  its  destined  way ; 
At  every  turn  the  loosening  chains  resound, 
The  swinging  ploughshare  circles  glistening  round, 
Till  the  wide  field  one  billowy  waste  appears, 
And  wearied  hands  unbind  the  panting  steers. 

These  are  the  hands  whose  sturdy  labor  brings 
The  peasant's  food,  the  golden  pomp  of  kings : 
This  is  the  page,  whose  letters  shall  be  seen 
Changed  by  the  sun  to  words  of  living  green ; 
This  is  the  scholar,  whose  immortal  pen 
Spells  the  first  lesson  hunger  taught  to  men ; 
These  are  the  lines  that  heaven-commanded  Toil 
Shows  on  his  deed,  —  the  charter  of  the  soil ! 

O  gracious  Mother,  whose  benignant  breast 
Wakes  us  to  life,  and  lulls  us  all  to  rest, 
How  thy  sweet  features,  kind  to  every  clime, 
Mock  with  their  smile  the  wrinkled  front  of  time ! 
We  stain  thy  flowers,  —  they  blossom  o'er  the  dead ; 
We  rend  thy  bosom,  and  it  gives  us  bread ; 
O'er  the  red  field  that  trampling  strife  has  torn, 
Waves  the  green  plumage  of  thy  tasselled  corn ; 


34  THE  PLOUGHMAN. 

Our  maddening  conflicts  scar  thy  fairest  plain, 
Still  thy  soft  answer  is  the  growing  grain. 
Yet,  O  our  Mother,  while  uncounted  charms 
Steal  round  our  hearts  in  thine  embracing  arms, 
Let  not  our  virtues  in  thy  love  decay, 
And  thy  fond  sweetness  waste  our  strength  away. 

No !  by  these  hills,  whose  banners  now  displayed 
In  blazing  cohorts  Autumn  has  arrayed : 
By  yon  twin  summits,  on  whose  splintery  crests 
The  tossing  hemlocks  hold  the  eagle's  nests ; 
By  these  fair  plains  the  mountain  circle  screens, 
And  feeds  with  streamlets  from  its  dark  ravines  ;  — 
True  to  their  home,  these  faithful  arms  shall  toil 
To  crown  with  peace  their  own  untainted  soil ; 
And,  true  to  God,  to  freedom,  to  mankind, 
If  her  chained  bandogs  Faction  shall  unbind, 
These  stately  forms,  that  bending  even  now 
Bowed  their  strong  manhood  to  the  humble  plough, 
Shall  rise  erect,  the  guardians  of  the  land, 
The  same  stern  iron  in  the  same  right  hand, 
Till  o'er  their  hills  the  shouts  of  triumph  run  ; 
The  sword  has  rescued  what  the  ploughshare  won ! 


A   POEM. 

(DEDICATION  OF  THE  PITTSFIELD  CEMETERY,  SEPTEMBER  9,  1850.) 

ANGEL  of  Death  !  extend  thy  silent  reign ! 
Stretch  thy  dark  sceptre  o'er  this  new  domain ! 
No  sable  car  along  the  winding  road 
Has  borne  to  earth  its  unresisting  load ; 
No  sudden  mound  has  risen  yet  to  show 
Where  the  pale  slumberer  folds  his  arms  below  ; 
No  marble  gleams  to  bid  his  memory  live 
In  the  brief  lines  that  hurrying  Time  can  give ; 
Yet,  O  Destroyer !  from  thy  shrouded  throne 
Look  on  our  gift ;  this  realm  is  all  thine  own ! 

Fair  is  the  scene ;  its  sweetness  oft  beguiled 
From  their  dim  paths  the  children  of  the  wild ; 
The  dark-haired  maiden  loved  its  grassy  dells, 
The  feathered  warrior  claimed  its  wooded  swells, 


36  A  POEM. 

Still  on  its  slopes  the  ploughman's  ridges  show 
The  pointed  flints  that  left  his  fatal  bow, 
Chipped  with  rough  art  and  slow  barbarian  toil,  — 
Last  of  his  wrecks  that  strews  the  alien  soil! 

Here  spread  the  fields  that  heaped  their  ripened  store 
Till  the  brown  arms  of  Labor  held  no  more  ; 
The  scythe's  broad  meadow  with  its  dusky  blush ; 
The  sickle's  harvest  with  its  velvet  flush ; 
The  green-haired  maize,  her  silken  tresses  laid, 
In  soft  luxuriance,  on  her  harsh  brocade ; 
The  gourd  that  swells  beneath  her  tossing  plume ; 
The  coarser  wheat  that  rolls  in  lakes  of  bloom,  — 
Its  coral  stems  and  milk-white  flowers  alive 
With  the  wide  murmurs  of  the  scattered  hive ; 
Here  glowed  the  apple  with  the  pencilled  streak 
Of  morning  painted  on  its  southern  cheek ; 
The  pear's  long  necklace  strung  with  golden  drops, 
Arched,  like  the  banian,  o'er  its  pillared  props ; 
Here  crept  the  growths  that  paid  the  laborer's  care 
With  the  cheap  luxuries  wealth  consents  to  spare ; 
Here  sprang  the  healing  herbs  which  could  not  save 
The  hand  that  reared  them  from  the  neighboring  grave. 

Yet  all  its  varied  charms,  forever  free 
From  task  and  tribute,  Labor  yields  to  thee ; 


A  POEM.  37 

No  more,  when  April  sheds  her  fitful  rain, 

The  sower's  hand  shall  cast  its  flying  grain ; 

No  more,  when  Autumn  strews  the  flaming  leaves, 

The  reaper's  band  shall  gird  its  yellow  sheaves ; 

For  thee  alike  the  circling  seasons  flow 

Till  the  first  blossoms  heave  the  latest  snow. 

In  the  stiff  clod  below  the  whirling  drifts, 

In  the  loose  soil  the  springing  herbage  lifts, 

In  the  hot  dust  beneath  the  parching  weeds, 

Life's  withering  flower  shall  drop  its  shrivelled  seeds ; 

Its  germ  entranced  in  thy  unbreathing  sleep 

Till  what  thou  sowest  mightier  angels  reap ! 

Spirit  of  Beauty !  let  thy  graces  blend 

With  loveliest  Nature  all  that  Art  can  lend. 

Come  from  the  bowers  where  Summer's  life-blood  flows 

Through  the  red  lips  of  June's  half-open  rose, 

Dressed  in  bright  hues,  the  loving  sunshine's  dower ; 

For  tranquil  Nature  owns  no  mourning  flower. 

Come  from  the  forest  where  the  beech's  screen 
Bars  the  fierce  noonbeam  with  its  flakes  of  green ; 
Stay  the  rude  axe  that  bares  the  shadowy  plains, 
Stanch  the  deep  wound  that  dries  the  maple's  veins. 

Come  with  the  stream  whose  silver-braided  rills 
Fling  their  unclasping  bracelets  from  the  hills, 


38  A  POEM. 

Till  in  one  gleam,  beneath  the  forest's  wings, 
Melts  the  white  glitter  of  a  hundred  springs. 

Come  from  the  steeps  where  look  majestic  forth 
From  their  twin  thrones  the  Giants  of  the  North 
On  the  huge  shapes,  that,  crouching  at  their  knees, 
Stretch  their  broad  shoulders,  rough  with  shaggy  trees. 
Through  the  wide  waste  of  ether,  not  in  vain, 
Their  softened  gaze  shall  reach  our  distant  plain  ; 
There,  while  the  mourner  turns  his  aching  eyes 
On  the  blue  mounds  that  print  the  bluer  skies, 
Nature  shall  whisper  that  the  fading  view 
Of  mightiest  grief  may  wear  a  heavenly  hue. 

Cherub  of  Wisdom  !  let  thy  marble  page 
Leave  its  sad  lesson,  new  to  every  age  ; 
Teach  us  to  live,  not  grudging  every  breath 
To  the  chill  winds  that  waft  us  on  to  death, 
But  ruling  calmly  every  pulse  it  warms, 
And  tempering  gently  every  word  it  forms. 


Seraph  of  Love  !  in  heaven's  adoring 
Nearest  of  all  around  the  central  throne, 
"While  with  soft  hands  the  pillowed  turf  we  spread 
That  soon  shall  hold  us  in  its  dreamless  bed, 
With  the  low  whisper,  —  Who  shall  first  be  laid 


A  POEM.  39 

In  the  dark  chamber's  yet  unbroken  shade  ?  — 
Let  thy  sweet  radiance  shine  rekindled  here, 
And  all  we  cherish  grow  more  truly  dear. 
Here  in  the  gates  of  Death's  o'erhanging  vault, 
O,  teach  us  kindness  for  our  brother's  fault ; 
Lay  all  our  wrongs  beneath  this  peaceful  sod, 
And  lead  our  hearts  to  Mercy  and  its  God. 

FATHER  of  all !  in  Death's  relentless  claim 
"We  read  thy  mercy  by  its  sterner  name ; 
In  the  bright  flower  that  decks  the  solemn  bier, 
We  see  thy  glory  in  its  narrowed  sphere ; 
In  the  deep  lessons  that  affliction  draws, 
"We  trace  the  curves  of  thy  encircling  laws  ; 
In  the  long  sigh  that  sets  our  spirits  free, 
We  own  the  love  that  calls  us  back  to  Thee ! 

Through  the  hushed  street,  along  the  silent  plain, 
The  spectral  future  leads  its  mourning  train, 
Dark  with  the  shadows  of  uncounted  bands, 
"Where  man's  white  lips  and  woman's  wringing  hands 
Track  the  still  burden,  rolling  slow  before, 
That  love  and  kindness  can. protect  no  niore  ; 
The  smiling  babe  that,  called  to  mortal  strife, 
Shuts  its  meek  eyes  and  drops  its  little  life ; 


40  A  POEM. 

The  drooping  child  who  prays  in  vain  to  live, 
And  pleads  for  help  its  parent  cannot  give ; 
The  pride  of  beauty  stricken  in  its  flower ; 
The  strength  of  manhood  broken  in  an  hour ; 
Age  in  its  weakness,  bowed  by  toil  and  care, 
Traced  in  sad  lines  beneath  its  silvered  hair. 

The  sun  shall  set,  and  heaven's  resplendent  spheres 
Gild  the  smooth  turf  unhallowed  yet  by  tears, 
But  ah  !  how  soon  the  evening  stars  will  shed 
Their  sleepless  light  around  the  slumbering  dead ! 

Take  them,  O  Father,  in  immortal  trust ! 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  kindred  dust, 
Till  the  last  angel  rolls  the  stone  away, 
And  a  new  morning  brings  eternal  day  ! 


PICTURES  FEOM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

1850-56. 

SPRING. 

WINTER  is  past ;  the  heart  of  Nature  warms 

Beneath  the  wrecks  of  unresisted  storms ; 

Doubtful  at  first,  suspected  more  than  seen, 

The  southern  slopes  are  fringed  with  tender  green ; 

On  sheltered  banks,  beneath  the  dripping  eaves, 

Spring's  earliest  nurslings  spread  their  glowing  leaves, 

Bright  with  the  hues  from  wider  pictures  won, 

"White,  azure,  golden,  —  drift,  or  sky,  or  sun ;  — 

The  snowdrop,  bearing  on  her  patient  breast 

The  frozen  trophy  torn  from  Winter's  crest ; 

The  violet,  gazing  on  the  arch  of  blue 

Till  her  own  iris  wears  its  deepened  hue ; 

The  spendthrift  crocus,  bursting  through  the  mould 

Kiiked  and  shivering  with  his  cup  of  gold. 

Swelled  with  new  life,  the  darkening  elm  on  high 

Prints  her  thick  buds  against  the  spotted  sky ; 


42  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

On  all  her  boughs  the  stately  chestnut  cleaves 
The  gummy  shroud  that  wraps  her  embryo  leaves ; 
The  house-fly,  stealing  from  his  narrow  grave, 
Drugged  with  the  opiate  that  .November  gave, 
Beats  with  faint  wing  against  the  sunny  pane, ' 
Or  crawls,  tenacious,  o'er  its  lucid  plain  ; 
From  shaded  chinks  of  lichen-crusted  walls, 
In  languid  curves,  the  gliding  serpent  crawls ; 
The  bog's  green  harper,  thawing  from  his  sleep, 
Twangs  a  hoarse  note  and  tries  a  shortened  leap  ; 
On  floating  rails  that  face  the  softening  noons 
The  still  shy  turtles  range  their  dark  platoons, 
Or,  toiling  aimless  o'er  the  mellowing  fields, 
Trail  through  the  grass  their  tessellated  shields. 

At  last  young  April,  ever  frail  and  fair, 
"Wooed  by  her  playmate  with  the  golden  hair, 
Chased  to  the  margin  of  receding  floods 
O'er  the  soft  meadows  starred  with  opening  buds, 
In  tears  and  blushes  sighs  herself  away, 
And  hides  her  cheek  beneath  the  flowers  of  May. 

Then  the  proud  tulip  lights  her  beacon  blaze, 
Her  clustering  curls  the  hyacinth  displays, 


SPRING.  43 

O'er  her  tall  blades  the  crested  fleur-de-lis, 
Like  blue-eyed  Pallas,  towers  erect  and  free ; 
With  yellower  flames  the  lengthened  sunshine  glows, 
And  love  lays  bare  the  passion-breathing  rose ; 
Queen  of  the  lake,  along  its  reedy  verge 
The  rival  lily  hastens  to  emerge, 
Her  snowy  shoulders  glistening  as  she  strips, 
Till  morn  is  sultan  of  her  parted  lips. 

Then  bursts  the  song  from  every  leafy  glade, 
The  yielding  season's  bridal  serenade ; 
Then  flash  the  wings  returning  Summer  calls 
Through  the  deep  arches  of  her  forest  halls ;  — 
The  bluebird,  breathing  from  his  azure  plumes 
The  fragrance  borrowed  where  the  myrtle  blooms ; 
The  thrush,  poor  wanderer,  dropping  meekly  down, 
Clad  in  his  remnant  of  autumnal  brown ; 
The  oriole,  drifting  like  a  flake  of  fire 
Rent  by  the  whirlwind  from  a  blazing  spire. 
The  robin,  jerking  his  spasmodic  throat, 
Repeats,  imperious,  his  staccato  note  ; 
The  crack-brained  bobolink  courts  his  crazy  mate, 
Poised  on  a  bulrush  tipsy  with  his  weight ; 
Nay,  in  his  cage  the  lone  canary  sings, 
Feels  the  soft  air,  and  spreads  his  idle  wings. 


44  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Why  dream  I  here  within  these  caging  walls, 
Deaf  to  her  voice,  while  blooming  Nature  calls ; 
Peering  and  gazing  with  insatiate  looks 
Through  blinding  lenses,  or  in  wearying  books  ? 
Off,  gloomy  spectres  of  the  shrivelled  past ! 
Fly  with  the  leaves  that  filled  the  autumn  blast ! 
Ye  imps  of  Science,  whose  relentless  chains 
Lock  the  warm  tides  within  these  living  veins, 
Close  your  dim  cavern,  while  its  captive  strays 
Dazzled  and  giddy  in  the  morning's  blaze ! 

THE    STUDY. 

YET  in  the  darksome  crypt  I  left  so  late, 
Whose  only  altar  is  its  rusted  grate,  — 
Sepulchral,  rayless,  joyless  as  it  seems, 
Shamed  by  the  glare  of  May's  refulgent  beams,  — 
While  the  dim  seasons  dragged  their  shrouded  train, 
Its  paler  splendors  were  not  quite  in  vain. 
From  these  dull  bars  the  cheerful  firelight's  glow 
Streamed  through  the  casement  o'er  the  spectral  snow ; 
Here,  while  the  night-wind  wreaked  its  frantic  will 
On  the  loose  ocean  and  the  rock-bound  hill, 
Kent  the  cracked  topsail  from  its  quivering  yard, 
And  rived  the  oak  a  thousand  storms  had  scarred, 


THE  STUDY.  45 

Fenced  by  these  walls  the  peaceful  taper  shone, 
Nor  felt  a  breath  to  slant  its  trembling  cone. 

Not  all  unblest  the  mild  interior  scene 
When  the  red  curtain  spread  its  falling  screen ; 
O'er  some  light  task  the  lonely  hours  were  past, 
And  the  long  evening  only  flew  too  fast ; 
Or  the  wide  chair  its  leathern  arms  would  lend 
In  genial  welcome  to  some  easy  friend, 
Stretched  on  its  bosom  with  relaxing  nerves, 
Slow  moulding,  plastic,  to  its  hollow  curves  ; 
Perchance  indulging,  if  of  generous  creed, 
In  brave  Sir  Walter's  dream-compelling  weed. 
Or,  happier  still,  the  evening  hour  would  bring 
To  the  round  table  its  expected  ring, 
And   while*  the    punch-bowl's    sounding    depths    were 

stirred,  — 

Its  silver  cherubs  smiling  as  they  heard,  — 
Our  hearts  would  open,  as  at  evening's  hour 
The  close-sealed  primrose  frees  its  hidden  flower. 

Such  the  warm  life  this  dim  retreat  has  known, 
Not  quite  deserted  when  its  guests  were  flown ; 
Nay,  filled  with  friends,  an  unobtrusive  set, 
Guiltless  of  calls  and  cards  and  etiquette, 


46  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Ready  to  answer,  never  known  to  ask, 

.  Claiming  no  service,  prompt  for  every  task. 

On  those  dark  shelves  no  housewife  hand  profanes, 
O'er  his  mute  files  the  monarch  folio  reigns  ; 
A  mingled  race,  the  wreck  of  chance  and  time, 
That  talk  all  tongues  and  breathe  of  every  clime ; 
Each  knows  his  place,  and  each  may  claim  his  part 
In  some  quaint  corner  of  his  master's  heart. 
This  old  Decretal,  won  from  Kloss's  hoards, 
Thick-leaved,  brass-cornered,  ribbed  with  oaken  boards, 
Stands  the  gray  patriarch  of  the  graver  rows, 
Its  fourth  ripe  century  narrowing  to  its  close ; 
Not  daily  conned,  but  glorious  still  to  view, 
With  glistening  letters  wrought  in  red  and  blue. 
There  towers  Stagira's  all-embracing  sage,  • 
The  Aldine  anchor  on  his  opening  page  ; 
There  sleep  the  births  of  Plato's  heavenly  mind, 
In  yon  dark  tomb  by  jealous  clasps  confined, 
"  Olim  e  libris  "  —  (dare  I  call  it  mine  ?  ) 
Of  Yale's  grave  Head  and  Killingworth's  divine ! 
In  those  square  sheets  the  songs  of  Maro  fill 
The  silvery  types  of  smooth-leaved  Baskerville; 
High  over  all,  in  close,  compact  array, 
Their  classic  wealth  the  Elzevirs  display. 


THE  STUDY.  47 

lower  regions  of  the  sacred  space 
Range  the  dense  volumes  of  a  humbler  race  ; 
There  grim  chirurgeons  all  their  mysteries  teach 
In  spectral  pictures,  or  in  crabbed  speech ;  . 
Harvey  and  Haller,  fresh  from  Nature's  page, 
Shoulder  the  dreamers  of  an  earlier  age, 
Lully  and  Geber,  and  the  learned  crew 
That  loved  to  talk  of  all  they  could  not  do. 
Why  count  the  rest,  —  those  names  of  later  days 
That  many  love,  and  all  agree  to  praise,  — 
r  Or  point  the  titles,  where  a  glance  may  read 
The  dangerous  lines  of  party  or  of  creed  ? 
Too  well,  perchance,  the  chosen  list  would  show 
What  few  may  care  and  none  can  claim  to  know. 
Each  has  his  features,  whose  exterior  seal 
A  brush  may  copy,  or  a  sunbeam  steal ; 
Go  to  his  study,  —  on  the  nearest  shelf 
Stands  the  mosaic  portrait  of  himself. 

What  though  for  months  the  tranquil  dust  descends, 
Whitening  the  heads  of  these  mine  ancient  friends, 
While  the  damp  offspring  of  the  modern  press 
Flaunts  on  my  table  with  its  pictured  dress ; 
Not  less  I  love  each  dull  familiar  face, 
Nor  less  should  miss  it  from  the  appointed  place ; 


48  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

I  snatch  the  book,  along  whose  burning  leaves 
His  scarlet  web  our  wild  romancer  weaves, 
Yet,  while  proud  Hester's  fiery  pangs  I  share, 
My  old  MAGNALIA  must  be  standing  there  ! 

THE  BELLS. 

WHEN  o'er  the  street  the  morning  peal  is  flung 
From  yon  tall  belfry  with  the  brazen  tongue, 
Its  wide  vibrations,  wafted  by  the  gale, 
To  each  far  listener  tell  a  different  tale. 

The  sexton,  stooping  to  the  quivering  floor 
Till  the  great  caldron  spills  its  brassy  roar, 
"Whirls  the  hot  axle,  counting,  one  by  one, 
Each  dull  concussion,  till  his  task  is  done. 

Toil's  patient  daughter,  when  the  welcome  note 
Clangs  through  the  silence  from  the  steeple's  throat, 
Streams,  a  white  unit,  to  the  checkered  street, 
Demure,  but  guessing  whom  she  soon  shall  meet ; 
The  bell,  responsive  to  her  secret  flame, 
With  every  note  repeats  her  lover's  name. 

The  lover,  tenant  of  the  neighboring  lane, 
Sighing,  and  fearing  lest  he  sigh  in  vain, 
Hears  the  stern  accents,  as  they  come  and  go, 
Their  only  burden  one  despairing  No ! 


THE  BELLS.  49 

Ocean's  rough  child,  whom  many  a  shore  has  known 
Ere  homeward  breezes  swept  him  to  his  own, 
Starts  at  the  echo  as  it  circles  round, 
A  thousand  memories  kindling  with  the  sound ; 
The  early  favorite's  unforgotten  charms, 
Whose  blue  initials  stain  his  tawny  arms ; 
His  first  farewell,  the  flapping  canvas  spread, 
The  seaward  streamers  crackling  o'er  his  head, 
His  kind,  pale  mother,  not  ashamed  to  weep 
Her  first-born's  bridal  with  the  haggard  deep, 
While  the  brave  father  stood  with  tearless  eye, 
Smiling  and  choking  with  his  last  good  by. 

'T  is  but  a  wave,  whose  spreading  circle  beats, 
With  the  same  impulse,  every  nerve  it  meets, 
Yet  who  shall  count  the  varied  shapes  that  ride 
On  the  round  surge  of  that  aerial  tide  ! 

O  child  of  earth  !     If  floating  sounds  like  these 
Steal  from  thyself  their  power  to  wound  or  please, 
If  here  or  there  thy  changing  will  inclines, 
As  the  bright  zodiac  shifts  its  rolling  signs, 
Look  at  thy  heart,  and  when  its  depths  are  known, 
Then  try  thy  brother's,  judging  by  thine  own, 
3 


50  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

But  keep  thy  wisdom  to  the  narrower  range, 
While  its  own  standards  are  the  sport  of  change, 
Nor  count  us  rebels  when  we  disobey 
The  passing  breath  that  holds  thy  passion's  sway. 


NON-RESISTANCE. 

PERHAPS  too  far  in  these  considerate  days 
Has  patience  carried  her  submissive  ways  ; 
Wisdom  has  taught  us  to  be  calm  and  meek, 
To  take  one  blow,  and  turn  the  other  cheek ; 
It  is  not  written  what  a  man  shall  do, 
If  the  rude  caitiff  strike  the  other  too ! 

Land  of  our  fathers,  in  thine  hour  of  need 
God  help  thee,  guarded  by  the  passive  creed  ! 
As  the  lone  pilgrim  trusts  to  beads  and  cowl, 
When  through  the  forest  rings  the  gray  wolf's  howl 
As  the  deep  galleon  trusts  her  gilded  prow 
When  the  black  corsair  slants  athwart  her  bow ; 
As  the  poor  pheasant,  with  his  peaceful  mien, 
Trusts  to  his  feathers,  shining  golden-green, 
When  the  dark  plumage  with  the  crimson  beak 
Has  rustled  shadowy  from  its  splintered  peak ; 


THE  MORAL  BULLY.  51 

So  trust  thy  friends,  whose  babbling  tongues  would  chartn 
The  lifted  sabre  from  thy  foeman's  arm, 
Thy  torches  ready  for  the  answering  peal 
From  bellowing  fort  and  thunder-freighted  keel ! 


THE  MORAL  BULLY. 

YON  whey-faced  brother,  who  delights  to  wear 

A  weedy  flux  of  ill-conditioned  hair, 

Seems  of  the  sort  that  in  a  crowded  place 

One  elbows  freely  into  smallest  space  ; 

A  timid  creature,  lax  of  knee  and  hip, 

Whom  small  disturbance  whitens  round  the  lip  ; 

One  of  those  harmless  spectacled  machines, 

The  Holy- Week  of  Protestants  convenes ; 

Whom  schoolboys  question  if  their  walk  transcends 

The  last  advices  of  maternal  friends ; 

Whom  John,  obedient  to  his  master's  sign, 

Conducts,  laborious,  up  to  ninety-nine, 

While  Peter,  glistening  with  luxurious  scorn, 

Husks  his  white  ivories  like  an  ear  of  corn ; 

Dark  in  the  brow  and  bilious  in  the  cheek, 

Whose  yellowish  linen  flowers  but  once  a  week, 

Conspicuous,  annual,  in  their  threadbare  suits, 


52  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

And  the  laced  high-lows  which  they  call  their  boots. 
"Well  mayst  thou  shun  that  dingy  front  severe, 
But  him,  0  stranger,  him  thou  canst  not  fear  ! 

Be  slow  to  judge,  and  slower  to  despise, 
Man  of  broad  shoulders  and  heroic  size ! 
The  tiger,  writhing  from  the  boa's  rings, 
Drops  at  the  fountain  where  the  cobra  stings. 
In  that  lean  phantom,  whose  extended  glove 
Points  to  the  text  of  universal  love, 
Behold  the  master  that  can  tame  thee  down 
To  crouch,  the  vassal  of  his  Sunday  frown ; 
His  velvet  throat  against  thy  corded  wrist, 
His  loosened  tongue  against  thy  doubled  fist ! 

The  MORAL  BULLY,  though  he  never  swears, 
Nor  kicks  intruders  down  his  entry  stairs, 
Though  meekness  plants  his  backward-sloping  hat, 
And  non-resistance  ties  his  white  cravat, 
Though  his  black  broadcloth  glories  to  be  seen 
In  the  same  plight  with  Shylock's  gaberdine, 
Hugs  the  same  passion  to  his  narrow  breast 
That  heaves  the  cuirass  on  the  trooper's  chest, 
Hears  the  same  hell-hounds  yelling  in  his  rear 
That  chase  from  port  the  maddened  buccaneer, 


THE  MIND'S  DIET.  53 

Feels  the  same  comfort  while  his  acrid  words 
Turn  the  sweet  milk  of  kindness  into  curds, 
Or  with  grim  logic  prove,  beyond  debate, 
That  all  we  love  is  worthiest  of  our  hate, 
As  the  scarred  ruffian  of  the  pirate's  deck, 
When  his  long  swivel  rakes  the  staggering  wreck ! 

Heaven  keep  us  all !     Is  every  rascal  clown 
Whose  arm  is  stronger  free  to  knock  us  down  ? 
Has  every  scarecrow,  whose  cachectic  soul 
Seems  fresh  from  Bedlam,  airing  on  parole, 
Who,  though  he  carries  but  a  doubtful  trace 
Of  angel  visits  on  his  hungry  face, 
From  lack  of  marrow  or  the  coins  to  pay, 
Has  dodged  some  vices  in  a  shabby  way, 
The  right  to  stick  us  with  his  cut-throat  terms, 
And  bait  his  homilies  with  his  brother  worms  ? 


THE   MIND'S   DIET. 


No  life  worth  naming  ever  comes  to  good 
If  always  nourished  on  the  self-same  food ; 
The  creeping  mite  may  li ve  so  if  he  please, 
And  feed  on  Stilton  till  he  turns  to  cheese, 


54  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

But  cool  Magendie  proves  beyond  a  doubt, 
If  mammals  try  it,  that  their  eyes  drop  out. 

No  reasoning  natures  find  it  safe  to  feed, 
For  their  sole  diet,  on  a  single  creed ; 
It  spoils  their  eyeballs  while  it  spares  their  tongues, 
And  starves  the  heart  to  feed  the  noisy  lungs. 

When  the  first  larvae  on  the  elm  are  seen, 
The  crawling  wretches,  like  its  leaves,  are  green ; 
Ere  chill  October  shakes  the  latest  down, 
They,  like  the  foliage,  change  their  tint  to  brown ; 
On  the  blue  flower  a  bluer  flower  you  spy, 
You  stretch  to  pluck  it  —  't  is  a  butterfly ; 
The  flattened  tree-toads  so  resemble  bark, 
They  're  hard  to  find  as  Ethiops  in  the  dark  ; 
The  woodcock,  stiffening  to  fictitious  mud, 
Cheats  the  young  sportsman  thirsting  for  his  blood. 
So  by  long  living  on  a  single  lie, 
Nay,  on  one  truth,  will  creatures  get  its  dye ; 
Red,  yellow,  green,  they  take  their  subject's  hue,  — 
Except  when  squabbling  turns  them  black  and  blue  ! 


OUR  LIMITATIONS.  55 


OUR  LIMITATIONS. 

WE  trust  and  fear,  we  question  and  believe, 
From  life's  dark  threads  a  trembling  faith  to  weave, 
Frail  as  the  web  that  misty  night  has  spun, 
Whose  dew-gemmed  awnings  glitter  in  the  sun. 
While  the  calm  centuries  spell  their  lessons  out, 
Each  truth  we  conquer  spreads  the  realm  of  doubt ; 
When  Sinai's  summit  was  Jehovah's  throne, 
The  chosen  Prophet  knew  his  voice  alone ; 
When  Pilate's  hall  that  awful  question  heard, 
The  Heavenly  Captive  answered  not  a  word. 

Eternal  Truth !  beyond  our  hopes  and  fears 
Sweep  the  vast  orbits  of  thy  myriad  spheres ! 
From  age  to  age,  while  History  carves  sublime 
On  her  waste  rock  the  naming  curves  of  time, 
How  the  wild  swayings  of  our  planet  show 
That  worlds  unseen  surround  the  world  we  know ! 


56  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 


THE    OLD    PLAYER. 

THE  curtain  rose ;  in  thunders  long  and  loud 
The  galleries  rung ;  the  veteran  actor  bowed. 
In  flaming  line  the  telltales  of  the  stage 
Showed  on  his  brow  the  autograph  of  age ; 
Pale,  hueless  waves  amid  his  clustered  hair, 
And  umbered  shadows,  prints  of  toil  and  care  ; 
Round  the  wide  circle^  glanced  his  vacant  eye,  — 
He  strove  to  speak,  —  his  voice  was  but  a  sigh. 

Year  after  year  had  seen  its  short-lived  race 
Flit  past  the  scenes  and  others  take  their  place ; 
Yet  the  old  prompter  watched  his  accents  still, 
His  name  still  flaunted  on  the  evening's  bill. 
Heroes,  the  monarchs  of  the  scenic  floor, 
Had  died  in  earnest  and  were  heard  no  more  ; 
Beauties,  whose  cheeks  such  roseate  bloom  o'erspread 
They  faced  the  footlights  in  unborrowed  red, 
Had  faded  slowly  through  successive  shades 
To  gray  duennas,  foils  of  younger  maids  ; 
Sweet  voices  lost  the  melting  tones  that  start 
With  Southern  throbs  the  sturdy  Saxon  heart, 
While  fresh  sopranos  shook  the  painted  sky 


THE   OLD  PLAYER.  57 

With  their  long,  breathless,  quivering  locust-cry. 
Yet  there  he  stood,  —  the  man  of  other  days, 
In  the  clear  present's  full,  unsparing  blaze, 
As  on  the  oak  a  faded  leaf  that  clings 
"While  a  new  April  spreads  its  burnished  wings. 

How  bright  yon  rows  that  soared  in  triple  tier; 
Their  central  sun  the  flashing  chandelier ! 
How  dim  the  eye  that  sought  with  doubtful  aim 
Some  friendly  smile  it  still  might  dare  to  claim ! 
How  fresh  these  hearts !  his  own  how  worn  and  cold ! 
Such  the  sad  thoughts  that  long-drawn  sigh  had  told. 

No  word  yet  faltered  on  his  trembling  tongue  ; 
Again,  again,  the  crashing  galleries  rung. 
As  the  old  guardsman  at  the  bugle's  blast 
Hears  in  its  strain  the  echoes  of  the  past ; 
So,  as  the  plaudits  rolled  and  thundered  round, 
A  life  of  memories  startled  at  the  sound. 

He  lived  again,  —  the  page  of  earliest  days,  — 
Days  of  small  fee  and  parsimonious  praise ; 
Then  lithe  young  Romeo  —  hark  that  silvered  tone, 
From  those  smooth  lips  —  alas  !  they  were  his  own. 
Then  the  bronzed  Moor,  with  all  his  love  and  woe, 
Told  his  strange  tale  of  midnight  melting  snow ; 
And  dark-plumed  Hamlet,  with  lu's  cloak  and  blade, 
Looked  on  the  royal  ghost,  himself  a  shade. 
3* 


58  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

All  in  one  flash,  his  youthful  memories  came, 
Traced  in  bright  hues  of  evanescent  flame, 
As  the  spent  swimmer's  in  the  lifelong  dream, 
While  the  last  bubble  rises  through  the  stream. 

Call  him  not  old,  whose  visionary  brain 
Holds  o'er  the  past  its  undivided  reign. 
For  him  in  vain  the  envious  seasons  roll 
Who  bears  eternal  summer  in  his  soul. 
If  yet  the  minstrel's  song,  the  poet's  lay, 
Spring  with  her  birds,  or  children  at  their  play, 
Or  maiden's  smile,  or  heavenly  dream  of  art, 
Stir  the  few  life-drops  creeping  round  his  heart, 
Turn  to  the  record  where  his  years  are  told,  — 
Count  his  gray  hairs,  —  they  cannot  make  him  old  ! 

What  magic  power  has  changed  the  faded  mime  ? 
One  breath  of  memory  on  the  dust  of  time. 
As  the  last  window  in  the  buttressed  wall 
Of  some  gray  minster  tottering  to  its  fall, 
Though  to  the  passing  crowd  its  hues  are  spread, 
A  dull  mosaic,  yellow,  green,  and  red, 
Viewed  from  within,  a  radiant  glory  shows 
When  through  its  pictured  screen  the  sunlight  flows, 
And  kneeling  pilgrims  on  its  storied  pane 
See  angels  glow  in  every  shapeless  stain ; 


THE  OLD  PLAYER.  59 

So  streamed  the  vision  through  his  sunken  eye, 
Clad  in  the  splendors  of  his  morning  sky. 

All  the  wild  hopes  his  eager  boyhood  knew, 
All  the  young  fancies  riper  years  proved  true, 
The  sweet,  low-whispered  words,  the  winning  glance 
From  queens  of  song,  from  Houris  of  the  dance, 
Wealth's  lavish  gift,  and  Flattery's  soothing  phrase, 
And  Beauty's  silence  when  her  blush  was  praise, 
And  melting  Pride,  her  lashes  wet  with  tears, 
Triumphs  and  banquets,  wreaths  and  crowns  and  cheers, 
Pangs  of  wild  joy  that  perish  on  the  tongue, 
And  all  that  poets  dream,  but  leave  unsung ! 

In  every  heart  some  viewless  founts  are  fed 
From  far-off  hill-sides  where  the  dews  were  shed ; 
On  the  worn  features  of  the  weariest  face 
Some  youthful  memory  leaves  its  hidden  trace, 
As  in  old  gardens  left  by  exiled  kings 
The  marble  basins  tell  of  hidden  springs, 
But,  gray  with  dust,  and  overgrown  with  weeds, 
Their  choking  jets  the  passer  little  heeds, 
Till  time's  revenges  break  their  seals  away, 
And,  clad  in  rainbow  light,  the  waters  play. 

Good  night,  fond  dreamer !  let  the  curtain  fall : 
The  world 's  a  stage,  and  we  are  players  all. 


60  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

A  strange  rehearsal !     Kings  without  their  crowns, 

And  threadbare  lords,  and  jewel-wearing  clowns, 

Speak  the  vain  words  that  mock  their  throbbing  hearts, 

As  Want,  stern  prompter  !  spells  them  out  their  parts. 

The  tinselled  hero  whom  we  praise  and  pay 

Is  twice  an  actor  in  a  twofold  play, 

We  smile  at  children  when  a  painted  screen 

Seems  to  their  simple  eyes  a  real  scene ; 

Ask  the  poor  hireling,  who  has  left  his  throne 

To  seek  the  cheerless  home  he  calls  his  own, 

Which  of  his  double  lives  most  real  seems, 

The  world  of  solid  fact  or  scenic  dreams  ? 

Canvas,  or  clouds,  —  the  foot-lights,  or  the  spheres,  — 

The  play  of  two  short  hours,  or  seventy  years  ? 

Dream  on  I    Though  Heaven  may  woo  our  open  eyes, 
Through  their  closed  lids  we  look  on  fairer  skies  ; 
Truth  is  for  other  worlds,  and  hope  for  this ; 
The  cheating  future  lends  the  present's  bliss  ; 
Life  is  a  running  shade,  with  fettered  hands, 
That  chases  phantoms  over  shifting  sands ; 
Death  a  still  spectre  on  a  marble  seat, 
With  ever  clutching  palms  and  shackled  feet ; 
The  airy  shapes  that  mock  life's  slender  chain, 
The  flying  joys  he  strives  to  clasp  in  vain, 
Death  only  grasps ;  to  live  is  to  pursue,  — 
Dream  on  !  there  's  nothing  but  illusion  true  ! 


THE  ISLAND  RUIN.  61 


THE   ISLAND    RUIN. 

YE  that  have  faced  the  billows  and  the  spray 
Of  good  St.  Botolph's  island-studded  bay, 
As  from  the  gliding  bark  your  eye  has  scanned 
The  beaconed  rocks,  the  wave-girt  hills  of  sand, 
Have  ye  not  marked  one  elm-o'ershadowed  isle, 
Round  as  the  dimple  chased  in  beauty's  smile,  — 
A  stain  of  verdure  on  an  azure  field, 
Set  like  a  jewel  in  a  battered  shield  ? 
Fixed  in  the  narrow  gorge  of  Ocean's  path, 
Peaceful  it  meets  him  in  his  hour  of  wrath ; 
When  the  mailed  Titan,  scourged  by  hissing  gales, 
"Writhes  in  his  glistening  coat  of  clashing  scales ; 
The  storm-beat  island  spreads  its  tranquil  green, 
Calm  as  an  emerald  on  an  angry  queen. 

So  fair  when  distant  should  be  fairer  near ; 
A  boat  shall  waft  us  from  the  outstretched  pier. 
The  breeze  blows  fresh ;  we  reach  the  island's  edge, 
Our  shallop  rustling  through  the  yielding  sedge. 

No  welcome  greets  us  on  the  desert  isle  ; 
Those  elms,  far-shadowing,  hide  no  stately  pile : 
Yet  these  green  ridges  mark  an  ancient  road  ; 
And  lo  !  the  traces  of  a  fair  abode ; 


62  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

The  long  gray  line  that  marks  a  garden-wall, 
And  heaps  of  fallen  beams,  —  fire-branded  all. 

Who  sees  unmoved,  a  ruin  at  his  feet, 
The  lowliest  home  where  human  hearts  have  beat  ? 
Its  hearth-stone,  shaded  with  the  bistre  stain 
A  century's  showery  torrents  wash  in  vain ; 
Its  starving  orchard,  where  the  thistle  blows 
And  mossy  trunks  still  mark  the  broken  rows ; 
Its  chimney-loving  poplar,  oftenest  seen 
Next  an  old  roof,  or  where  a  roof  has  been ; 
Its  knot-grass,  plantain,  —  all  the  social  weeds, 
Man's  mute  companions,  following  where  he  leads  ; 
Its  dwarfed,  pale  flowers,  that   show  their  straggling 

heads, 

Sown  by  the  wind  from  grass-choked  garden-beds ; 
Its  woodbine,  creeping  where  it  used  to  climb ; 
Its  roses,  breathing  of  the  olden  time ; 
All  the  poor  shows  the  curious  idler  sees, 
As  life's  thin  shadows  waste  by  slow  degrees, 
Till  naught  remains,  the  saddening  tale  to  tell, 
Save  home's  last  wrecks,  —  the  cellar  and  the  well ! 

And  whose  the  home  that  strews  in  black  decay 
The  one  green-glowing  island  of  the  bay  ? 
Some  dark-browed  pirate's,  jealous  of  the  fate 
That  seized  the  stranded  wretch  of  "  Nix's  Mate  "  ? 


THE  ISLAND  RUIN.  63 

Some  forger's,  skulking  in  a  borrowed  name, 

Whom  Tyburn's  dangling  halter  yet  may  claim  ? 

Some  wan-eyed  exile's,  wealth  and  sorrow's  heir, 

Who  sought  a  lone  retreat  for  tears  and  prayer  ? 

Some  brooding  poet's,  sure  of  deathless  fame, 

Had  not  his  epic  perished  in  the  flame  ? 

Or  some  gray  wooer's,  whom  a  girlish  frown 

Chased  from  his  solid  friends  and  sober  town  ? 

Or  some  plain  tradesman's,  fond  of  shade  and  ease, 

Who  sought  them  both  beneath  these  quiet  trees  ? 

Why  question  mutes  no  question  can  unlock, 

Dumb  as  the  legend  on  the  Dighton  rock  ? 

One  thing  at  least  these  ruined  heaps  declare,  — 

They  were  a  shelter  once  ;  a  man  lived  there. 

But  where  the  charred  and  crumbling  records  fail, 
Some  breathing  lips  may  piece  the  half-told  tale ; 
No  man  may  live  with  neighbors  such  as  these, 
Though  girt  with  walls  of  rock  and  angry  seas, 
And  shield  his  home,  his  children,  or  his  wife, 
His  ways,  his  means,  his  vote,  his  creed,  his  life, 
From  the  dread  sovereignty  of  Ears  and  Eyes 
And  the  small  member  that  beneath  them  lies. 

They  told  strange  things  of  that  mysterious  man ; 
Believe  who  will,  deny  them  such  as  can  ; 
Why  should  we  fret  if  every  passing  sail 


64  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Had  its  old  seajnan  talking  on  the  rail  ? 
The  deep-sunk  schooner  stuffed  with  Eastern  lime, 
Slow  wedging  on,  as  if  the  waves  were  slime ; 
The  knife-edged  clipper  with  her  ruffled  spars, 
The  pawing  steamer  with  her  mane  of  stars, 
The  bull-browed  galliot  butting  through  the  stream, 
The  wide-sailed  yacht  that  slipped  along  her  beam, 
The  deck-piled  sloops,  the  pinched  chebacco-boats, 
The  frigate,  black  with  thunder-freighted  throats, 
All  had  their  talk  about  the  lonely  man ; 
And  thus,  in  varying  phrase,  the  story  ran. 
His  name  had  cost  him  little  care  to  seek, 
Plain,  honest,  brief,  a  decent  name  to  speak, 
Common,  not  vulgar,  just  the  kind  that  slips 
With  least  suggestion  from  a  stranger's  lips. 
His  birthplace  England,  as  his  speech  might  show, 
Or  his  hale  cheek,  that  wore  the  red-streak's  glow ; 
His  mouth  sharp-moulded ;  in  its  mirth  or  scorn 
There  came  a  flash  as  from  the  milky  corn, 
When  from  the  ear  you  rip  the  rustling  sheath, 
And  the  white  ridges  show  their  even  teeth. 
His  stature  moderate,  but  his  strength  confessed, 
In  spite  of  broadcloth,  by  his  ample  breast ; 
Full-armed,  thick-handed  ;  one  that  had  been  strong, 
And  might  be  dangerous  still,  if  things  went  wrong. 


THE  ISLAND  RUIN.  65 

He  lived  at  ease  beneath  his  elm-trees'  shade, 
Did  naught  for  gain,  yet  all  his  debts  were  paid ; 
Eich,  so  't  was  thought,  but  careful  of  his  store ; 
Plad  all  he  needed,  claimed  to  have  no  more. 

But  some  that  lingered  round  the  isle  at  night 
Spoke  of  strange  stealthy  doings  in  their  sight ; 
Of  creeping  lonely  visits  that  he  made 
To  nooks  and  corners,  with  a  torch  and  spade. 
Some  said  they  saw  the  hollow  of  a  cave ; 
One,  given  to  fables,  swore  it  was  a  grave ; 
Whereat  some  shuddered,  others  boldly  cried, 
Those  prowling  boatmen  lied,  and  knew  they  lied. 

They  said  his  house  was  framed  with  curious  cares, 
Lest  some  old  friend  might  enter  unawares ; 
That  on  the  platform  at  his  chamber's  door 
Hinged  a  loose  square  that  opened  through  the  floor ; 
Touch  the  black  silken  tassel  next  the  bell, 
Down,  with  a  crash,  the  flapping  trap-door  fell ; 
Three  stories  deep  the  falling  wretch  would  strike, 
To  writhe  at  leisure  on  a  boarder's  pike. 

By  day  armed  always ;  double-armed  at  night, 
His  tools  lay  round  him ;  wake  him  such  as  might. 
A  carbine  hung  beside  his  India  fan, 
His  hand  could  reach  a  Turkish  ataghan  ; 
Pistols,  with  quaint-carved  stocks  and  barrels  gilt, 


66  PICTUEES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Crossed  a  long  dagger  with  a  jewelled  hilt ; 
A  slashing  cutlass  stretched  along  the  bed  ;  — 
All  this  was  what  those  lying  boatmen  said. 

Then  some  were  full  of  wondrous  stories  told 
About  old  chests  and  cupboards  full  of  gold  ; 
Of  the  wedged  ingots  and  the  silver  bars 
That  cost  old  pirates  ugly  sabre-scars ; 
How  his  laced  wallet  often  would  disgorge 
The  fresh-faced  guinea  of  an  English  George, 
Or  sweated  ducat,  palmed  by  Jews  of  yore, 
Or  double  Joe,  or  Portuguese  moidore, 
And  how  his  finger  wore  a  rubied  ring 
Fit  for  the  white-necked  play-girl  of  a  king. 
But  these  fine  legends,  told  with  staring  eyes, 
Met  with  small  credence  from  the  old  and  wise. 

Why  tell  each  idle  guess,  each  whisper  vain  ? 
Enough :  the  scorched  and  cindered  beams  remain. 
He  came,  a  silent  pilgrim  to  the  West, 
Some  old-world  mystery  throbbing  in  his  breast ; 
Close  to  the  thronging  mart  he  dwelt  alone  ; 
He  lived ;  he  died.     The  rest  is  all  unknown. 

Stranger,  whose  eyes  the  shadowy  isle  survey, 
As  the  black  steamer  dashes  through  the  bay, 
Why  ask  his  buried  secret  to  divine  ? 
He  was  thy  brother ;  speak,  and  tell  us  thine  ! 


THE  BANKER'S  DINNER.  67 


THE    BANKER'S    DINNER. 


THE  Banker's  dinner  is  the  stateliest  feast 
The  town  has  heard  of  for  a  year,  at  least ; 
The  sparry  lustres  shed  their  broadest  blaze, 
Damask  and  silver  catch  and  spread  the  rays  ; 
The  florist's  triumphs  crown  the  daintier  spoil 
"Won  from  the  sea,  the  forest,  or  the  soil ; 
The  steaming  hot-house  yields  its  largest  pines, 
The  sunless  vaults  unearth  their  oldest  wines. 
"With  one  admiring  look  the  scene  survey, 
And  turn  a  moment  from  the  bright  display. 

Of  all  the  joys  of  earthly  pride  or  power, 
"What  gives  most  life,  worth  living,  in  an  hour  ? 
When  Victory  settles  on  the  doubtful  fight 
And  the  last  foeman  wheels  in  panting  flight, 
No  thrill  like  this  is  felt  beneath  the  sun ; 
Life's  sovereign  moment  is  a  battle  won. 

But  say  what  next  ?     To  shape  a  Senate's  choice 
By  the  strong  magic  of  the  master's  voice  ; 
To  ride  the  stormy  tempest  of  debate 
That  whirls  the  wavering  fortunes  of  the  state. 

Third  in  the  list,  the  happy  lover's  prize 
Is  won  by  honeyed  words  from  women's  eyes. 


68  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

If  some  would  have  it  first  instead  of  third, 
So  let  it  be,  —  I  answer  not  a  word. 

The  fourth,  —  sweet  readers,  let  the  thoughtless  half 
Have  its  small  shrug  and  inoffensive  laugh ; 
Let  the  grave  quarter  wear  its  virtuous  frown, 
The  stern  half-quarter  try  to  scowl  us  down ; 
But  the  last  eighth,  the  choice  and  sifted  few, 
Will  hear  my  words,  and,  pleased,  confess  them  true. 

Among  the  great  whom  Heaven  has  made  to  shine, 
How  few  have  learned  the  art  of  arts,  —  to  dine ! 
Nature,  indulgent  to  our  daily  need, 
Kind-hearted  mother  !  taught  us  all  to  feed  ; 
But  the  chief  art,  —  how  rarely  Nature  flings 
This  choicest  gift  among  her  social  kings  ! 
Say,  man  of  truth,  has  life  a  brighter  hour 
Than  waits  the  chosen  guest  who  knows  his  power  ? 

He  moves  with  ease,  itself  an  angel  charm,  — 
Lifts  with  light  touch  my  lady's  jewelled  arm, 
Slides  to  his  seat,  half  leading  and  half  led, 
Smiling  but  quiet  till  the  grace  is  said, 
Then  gently  kindles,  while  by  slow  degrees 
Creep  softly  out  the  little  arts  that  please ; 
Bright  looks,  the  cheerful  language  of  the  eye, 
The  neat,  crisp  question  and  the  gay  reply,  — 
Talk  light  and  airy,  such  as  well  may  pass 


THE  BANKER'S  DINNER.  69 

Between  the  rested  fork  and  lifted  glass ;  — 
With  play  like  this  the  earlier  evening  flies, 
Till  rustling  silks  proclaim  the  ladies  rise. 

His  hour  has  come,  —  he  looks  along  the  chairs, 
As  the  Great  Duke  surveyed  his  iron  squares. 

—  That  's  the  young  traveller,  —  is  n't  much  to  show,  — 
Fast  on  the  road,  but  at  the  table  slow. 

—  Next  him,  —  you  see  the  author  in  his  look,  — 
His  forehead  lined  with  wrinkles  like  a  book,  — 
Wrote  the  great  history  of  ttie  ancient  Huns,  — 
Holds  back  to  fire  among  the  heavy  guns. 

—  0,  there 's  our  poet  seated  at  his  side, 
Beloved  of  ladies,  soft,  cerulean-eyed. 
Poets  are  prosy  in  their  common  talk, 

As  the  fast  trotters,  for  the  most  part,  walk. 

—  And  there 's  our  well-dressed  gentleman,  who  sits, 
By  right  divine,  no  doubt,  among  the  wits, 

Who  airs  his  tailor's  patterns  when  he  walks, 
The  man  that  often  speaks,  but  never  talks. 
Why  should  he  talk,  whose  presence  lends  a  grace 
To  every  table  where  he  shows  his  face  ? 
He  knows  the  manual  of  the  silver  fork, 
Can  name  his  claret  —  if  he  sees  the  cork,  — 
Remark  that  "  White-top  "  was  considered  fine, 
But  swear  the  "  Juno  "  is  the  better  wine ;  — 


70  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Is  not  this  talking  ?     Ask  Quintilian's  rules  ; 
If  they  say  No,  the  town  has  many  fools. 

—  Pause  for  a  moment,  —  for  our  eyes  behold 
The  plain  unsceptred  king,  the  man  of  gold, 
The  thrice  illustrious  threefold  millionnaire ; 
Mark  his  slow-creeping,  dead,  metallic  stare  ; 
His  eyes,  dull  glimmering,  like  the  balance-pan 
That  weighs  its  guinea  as  he  weighs  his  man. 

—  Who 's  next  ?     An  artist,  in  a  satin  tie 
Whose  ample  folds  defeat  the  curious  eye. 

— And  there 's  the  cousin, — must  be  asked,  you  know,- 
Looks  like  a  spinster  at  a  baby-show. 
Hope  he  is  cool,  —  they  set  him  next  the  door,  — 
And  likes  his  place,  between  the  gap  and  bore. 

—  Next  comes  a  Congress-man,  distinguished  guest ! 
We  don't  count  him,  —  they  asked  him  with  the  rest ; 
And  then  some  white  cravats,  with  well-shaped  ties, 
And  heads  above  them  which  their  owners  prize. 

Of  all  that  cluster  round  the  genial  board, 
Not  one  so  radiant  as  the  banquet's  lord. 
Some  say  they  fancy,  but  they  know  not  why, 
A  shade  of  trouble  brooding  in  his  eye, 
Nothing,  perhaps,  —  the  rooms  are  over-hot,  — 
Yet  see  his  cheek,  —  the  dull-red  burning  spot,  — 


THE  BANKER'S  DINNER.  71 

Taste  the  brown  sherry  which  he  does  not  pass,  — 
Ha !     That  is  brandy ;  see  him  fill  his  glass ! 

But  not  forgetful  of  his  feasting  friends, 
To  each  in  turn  some  lively  word  he  sends ; 
See  how  he  throws  his  baited  lines  about, 
And  plays  his  men  as  anglers  play  their  trout. 

With  the  dry  sticks  all  bonfires  are  begun ; 
Bring  the  first  fagot,  proser  number  one ! 
A  question  drops  among  the  listening  crew 
And  hits  the  traveller,  pat  on  Timbuctoo. 
"We  're  on  the  Niger,  somewhere  near  its  source,  — 
Not  the  least  hurry,  take  the  river's  course 
Through  Kissi,  Foota,  Kankan,  Bammakoo, 
Bambarra,  Sego,  so  to  Timbuctoo, 
Thence  down  to  Youri ;  —  stop  him  if  we  can, 
"We  can't  fare  worse,  —  wake  up  the  Congress-man  ! 
The  Congress-man,  once  on  his  talking  legs, 
Stirs  up  his  knowledge  to  its  thickest  dregs. 
Tremendous  draught  for  dining  men  to  quaff! 
Nothing  will  choke  him  but  a  purpling  laugh. 
A  word,  —  a  shout,  —  a  mighty  roar,  —  't  is  done ; 
Extinguished  ;  lassoed  by  a  treacherous  pun. 

A  laugh  is  priming  to  the  loaded  soul ; 
The  scattering  shots  become  a  steady  roll, 
Broke  by  sharp  cracks  that  run  along  the  line, 


72  PICTUEES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

The  light  artillery  of  the  talker's  wine. 

The  kindling  goblets  flame  with  golden  dews, 

The  hoarded  flasks  their  tawny  fire  diffuse, 

And  the  Rhine's  breast-milk  gushes  cold  and  bright, 

Pale  as  the  moon  and  maddening  as  her  light ; 

With  crimson  juice  the  thirsty  southern  sky 

Sucks  from  the  hills  where  buried  armies  lie, 

So  that  the  dreamy  passion  it  imparts 

Is  drawn  from  heroes'  bones  and  lovers'  hearts. 

But  lulls  will  come ;  the  flashing  soul  transmits 
Its  gleams  of  light  in  alternating  fits. 
The  shower  of  talk  that  rattled  down  amain 
Ends  in  small  patterings  like  an  April's  rain ; 
The  voices  halt ;  the  game  is  at  a  stand ; 
Now  for  a  solo  from  the  master-hand  ! 

'T  is  but  a  story,  —  quite  a  simple  thing,  — 
An  aria  touched  upon  a  single  string, 
But  every  accent  comes  with  such  a  grace 
The  stupid  servants  listen  in  their  place, 
Each  with  his  waiter  in  his  lifted  hands, 
Still  as  a  well-bred  pointer  when  he  stands. 
A  query  checks  him :  "  Is  he  quite  exact  ?  "  — 
(This  from  a  grizzled,  square-jawed  man  of  fact. ) 
The  sparkling  story  leaves  him  to  his  fate, 
Crushed  by  a  witness,  smothered  with  a  date, 


THE  BANKER'S  DIXXER.  73 

As  a  swift  river,  sown  with  many  a  star, 
Runs  brighter,  rippling  on  a  shallow  bar. 
The  smooth  divine  suggests  a  graver  doubt ; 
A  neat  quotation  bowls  the  parson  out ; 
Then,  sliding  gayly  from  his  own  display, 
He  laughs  the  learned  dulness  all  away. 

So,  with  the  merry  tale  and  jovial  song, 
The  jocund  evening  whirls  itself  along, 
Till  the  last  chorus  shrieks  its  loud  encore, 
And  the  white  neckcloths  vanish  through  the  door. 

One  savage  word !  —  The  menials  know  its  tone, 
And  slink  away ;  the  master  stands  alone. 
u  "Well   played,   by  — "  ;   breathe  not  what  were  best 

unheard ; 

His  goblet  shivers  while  he  speaks  the  word,  — 
"  If  wine  tells  truth,  —  and  so  have  said  the  wise,  — 
It  makes  me  laugh  to  think  how  brandy  lies ! 
Bankrupt  to-morrow,  —  millionnaire  to-day,  — 
The  farce  is  over,  —  now  begins  the  play  ! " 

The  spring  he  touches  lets  a  panel  glide ; 
An  iron  closet  lurks  beneath  the  slide, 
Bright  with  such  treasures  as  a  search  might  bring 
From  the  deep  pockets  of  a  truant  king. 
Two  diamonds,  eyeballs  of  a  God  of  bronze, 
4 


74  PICTUKES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Bought  from  his  faithful  priest,  a  pious  Bonze ; 
A  string  of  brilliants  ;  rubies,  three  or  four  ; 
Bags  of  old  coin  and  bars  of  virgin  ore ; 
A  jewelled  poniard  and  a  Turkish  knife, 
Noiseless  and  useful  if  we  come  to  strife. 

Gone  !     As  a  pirate  flies  before  the  wind, 
And  not  one  tear  for  all  he  leaves  behind ! 
From  all  the  love  his  better  years  have  known 
Fled  like  a  felon,  —  ah !  but  not  alone ! 
The  chariot  flashes  through  a  lantern's  glare,  — 
O  the  wild  eyes !  the  storm  of  sable  hair  ! 
Still  to  his  side  the  broken  heart  will  cling,  — 
The  bride  of  shame,  —  the  wife  without  the  ring : 
Hark,  the  deep  oath,  —  the  wail  of  frenzied  woe,  — 
Lost !  lost  to  hope  of  Heaven  and  peace  below  ! 

He  kept  his  secret ;  but  the  seed  of  crime 
Bursts  of  itself  in  God's  appointed  time. 
The  lives  he  wrecked  were  scattered  far  and  wide  ; 
One  never  blamed  nor  wept,  —  she  only  died. 
None  knew  his  lot,  though  idle  tongues  wrould  say 
He  sought  a  lonely  refuge  far  away, 
And  there,  with  borrowed  name  and  altered  mien, 
He  died  unheeded,  as  he  lived  unseen. 
The  moral  market  had  the  usual  chills 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  ILLNESS.  75 

Of  Virtue  suffering  from  protested  bills : 
The  White  Cravats,  to  friendship's  memory  true, 
Sighed  for  the  past,  surveyed  the  future  too ; 
Their  sorrow  breathed  in  one  expressive  line,  — 
"  Gave  pleasant  dinners ;  who  has  got  his  wine  ?  " 


THE   MYSTERIOUS    ILLNESS. 

WHAT  ailed  young  Lucius  ?     Art  had  vainly  tried 
To  guess  his  ill,  and  found  herself  defied. 
The  Augur  plied  his  legendary  skill ; 
Useless  ;  the  fair  young  Roman  languished  still. 
His  chariot  took  him  every  cloudless  day 
Along  the  Pincian  Hill  or  Appian  Way ; 
They  rubbed  his  wasted  limbs  with  sulphurous  oil, 
Oozed  from  the  far-off  Orient's  heated  soil ; 
They  led  him  tottering  down  the  steamy  path 
Where  bubbling  fountains  filled  the  thermal  bath ; 
Borne  in  his  litter  to  Egeria's  cave, 
They  washed  him,  shivering,  in  her  icy  wave. 
They  sought  all  curious  herbs  and  costly  stones, 
They  scraped  the  moss  that  grew  on  dead  men's  bones, 
They  tried  all  cures  the  votive  tablets  taught, 
Scoured    every    place    whence    healing    drugs    were 
brought, 


76  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

O'er  Thracian  hills  his  breathless  couriers  ran, 
His  slaves  waylaid  the  Syrian  caravan. 

At  last  a  servant  heard  a  stranger  speak 
A  new  chirurgeon's  name  ;  a  clever  Greek, 
Skilled  in  his  art ;  from  Pergamus  he  came 
To  Rome  but  lately  ;  GALEN  was  the  name. 
The  Greek  was  called  :  a  man  with  piercing  eyes, 
Who  must  be  cunning,  and  who  might  be  wise. 
He  spoke  but  little,  —  if  they  pleased,  he  said, 
He  'd  wait  awhile  beside  the  sufferer's  bed. 
So  by  his  side  he  sat,  serene  and  calm, 
His  very  accents  soft  as  healing  balm ; 
Not  curious  seemed,  but  every  movement  spied, 
His   sharp   eyes   searching   where   they   seemed   to 

glide  ; 

Asked  a  few  questions,  —  what  he  felt,  and  where  ? 
"  A  pain  just  here,"  "  A  constant  beating  there." 
Who  ordered  bathing  for  his  aches  and  ails  ? 
"  Charmis,  the  water-doctor  from  Marseilles." 
What  was  the  last  prescription  in  his  case  ? 
"  A  draught  of  wine  with  powdered  chrysoprase." 
Had  he  no  secret  grief  he  nursed  alone  ? 
A  pause ;  a  little  tremor ;  answer,  —  "  None." 

Thoughtful,  a  moment,  sat  the  cunning  leech, 
And  muttered  "  Eros ! "  in  his  native  speech. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  ILLNESS.  77 

In  the  broad  atrium  various  friends  await 
The  last  new  utterance  from  the  lips  of  fate ; 
Men,  matrons,  maids,  they  talk  the  question  o'er, 
And,  restless,  pace  the  tessellated  floor. 
Not  unobserved  the  youth  so  long  had  pined, 
By  gentle-hearted  dames  and  damsels  kind ; 
One  with  the  rest,  a  rich  Patrician's  pride, 
The  lady  Hermia,  called  "  the  golden-eyed  ;  " 
The  same  the  old  Proconsul  fain  must  woo, 
Whom,  one  dark  night,  a  masked  sicarius  slew ; 
The  same  black  Crassus  over  roughly  pressed 
To  hear  his  suit,  —  the  Tiber  knows  the  rest. 
(Crassus  was  missed  next  morning  by  his  set ; 
Next  week  the  fishers  found  him  in  their  net.) 
She  with  the  others  paced  the  ample  hall, 
Fairest,  alas !  and  saddest  of  them  all. 

At  length  the  Greek  declared,  with  puzzled  face, 
Some  strange  enchantment  mingled  in  the  case, 
And  naught  would  serve  to  act  as  counter-charm 
Save  a  warm  bracelet  from  a  maiden's  arm. 
Not  every  maiden's,  —  many  might  be  tried  ; 
Which  not  in  vain,  experience  must  decide. 
Were  there  no  damsels  willing  to  attend 
And  do  such  service  for  a  suffering  friend  ? 

The  message  passed  among  the  waiting  crowd, 


78  PICTUEES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

First  in  a  whisper,  then  proclaimed  aloud. 
Some  wore  no  jewels  ;  some  were  disinclined, 
For  reasons  better  guessed  at  than  denned  j 
Though  all  were  saints,  —  at  least  professed  to  be, 
The  list  all  counted,  there  were  named  but  three. 

The  leech,  still  seated  by  the  patient's  side, 
Held  his  thin  wrist,  and  watched  him,  eagle-eyed. 

Aurelia  first,  a  fair-haired  Tuscan  girl, 
Slipped  off  her  golden  asp,  with  eyes  of  pearl. 
His  solemn  head  the  grave  physician  shook ; 
The  waxen  features  thanked  her  with  a  look. 

Olympia  next,  a  creature  half  divine, 
Sprung  from  the  blood  of  old  Evander's  line, 
Held  her  white  arm,  that  wore  a  twisted  chain 
Clasped  with  an  opal-sheeny  cymophane. 
In  vain,  O  daughter  !  said  the  baffled  Greek. 
The  patient  sighed  the  thanks  he  could  not  speak. 

Last,  Hermia  entered ;  look,  that  sudden  start ! 
The  pallium  heaves  above  his  leaping  heart ; 
The  beating  pulse,  the  cheek's  rekindled  flame, 
Those  quivering  lips,  the  secret  all  proclaim. 
The  deep  disease  long  throbbing  in  the  breast, 
The  dread  enchantment,  ah1  at  once  confessed ! 
The  case  was  plain  ;  the  treatment  was  begun ; 
And  Love  soon  cured  the  mischief  he  had  done. 


A  MOTHER'S  SECRET.  79 

Young  Love,  too  oft  thy  treacherous  bandage  slips 
Down  from  the  eyes  it  blinded  to  the  lips  ! 
Ask  not  the  Gods,  O  youth,  for  clearer  sight, 
But  the  bold  heart  to  plead  thy  cause  aright. 
And  thou,  fair  maiden,  when  thy  lovers  sigh, 
Suspect  thy  flattering  ear,  but  trust  thine  eye, 
And  learn  this  secret  from  the  tale  of  old : 
No  love  so  true  as  love  that  dies  untold. 


A   MOTHER'S    SECRET. 

How  sweet  the  sacred  legend  —  if  unblamed 

In  my  slight  verse  such  holy  things  are  named  — 

Of  Mary's  secret  hours  of  hidden  joy, 

Silent,  but  pondering  on  her  wondrous  boy ! 

Ave,  Maria !     Pardon,  if  I  wrong 

Those  heavenly  words  that  shame  my  earthly  song ! 

The  choral  host  had  closed  the  Angels'  strain 
Sung  to  the  listening  watch  on  Bethlehem's  plain, 
And  now  the  shepherds,  hastening  on  their  way, 
Sought  the  still  hamlet  where  the  Infant  lay. 
They  passed  the  fields  that  gleaning  Ruth  toiled  o'er, 
They  saw  afar  the  ruined  threshing-floor 
Where  Moab's  daughter,  homeless  and  forlorn, 


80  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Found  Boaz  slumbering  by  his  heaps  of  corn ; 
And  some  remembered  how  the  holy  scribe, 
Skilled  in  the  lore  of  every  jealous  tribe, 
Traced  the  warm  blood  of  Jesse's  royal  son 
To  that  fair  alien,  bravely  wooed  and  won. 
So  fared  they  on  to  seek  the  promised  sign 
That  marked  the  anointed  heir  of  David's  line. 

At  last,  by  forms  of  earthly  semblance  led, 
They  found  the  crowded  inn,  the  oxen's  shed. 
JSTo  pomp  was  there,  no  glory  shone  around 
On  the  coarse  straw  that  strewed  the  reeking  ground ; 
One  dim  retreat  a  flickering  torch  betrayed,  - — 
In  that  poor  cell  the  Lord  of  Life  was  laid ! 

The  wondering  shepherds  told  their  breathless  tale 
Of  the  bright  choir  that  woke  the  sleeping  vale  ; 
Told  how  the  skies  with  sudden  glory  flamed, 
Told  how  the  shining  multitude  proclaimed 
"  Joy,  joy  to  earth !     Behold  the  hallowed  morn ! 
In  David's  city  Christ  the  Lord  is  born ! 
i  Glory  to  God  ! '  let  angels  shout  on  high, 
'  Good  will  to  men  ! '  the  listening  earth  reply  !  " 

They  spoke  with  hurried  words  and  accents  wild ; 
Calm  in  his  cradle  slept  the  heavenly  child. 
No  trembling  word  the  mother's  joy  revealed,  — 
One  sigh  of  rapture,  and  her  lips  were  sealed ; 


A  MOTHER'S  SECRET.  81 

Unmoved  she  saw  the  rustic  train  depart, 
But  kept  their  words  to  ponder  in  her  heart. 

Twelve  years  had  passed ;  the  boy  was  fair  and  tall, 
Growing  in  wisdom,  finding  grace  with  all. 
The  maids  of  Nazareth,  as  they  trooped  to  fill 
Their  balanced  urns  beside  the  mountain  rill,  — 
The  gathered  matrons,  as  they  sat  and  spun,  — 
Spoke  in  soft  words  of  Joseph's  quiet  son. 
No  voice  had  reached  the  Galilean  vale 
Of  star-led  kings,  or  awe-struck  shepherd's  tale ; 
In  the  meek,  studious  child  they  only  saw 
The  future  Rabbi,  learned  in  Israel's  law. 

So  grew  the  boy,  and  now  the  feast  was  near 
"When  at  the  Holy  Place  the  tribes  appear. 
Scarce  had  the  home-bred  child  of  Nazareth  seen 
Beyond  the  hills  that  girt  the  village  green, 
Save  when  at  midnight,  o'er  the  starlit  sands, 
Snatched  from  the  steel  of  Herod's  murdering  bands, 
A  babe,  close  folded  to  his  mother's  breast, 
Through  Edom's  wilds  he  sought  the  sheltering  West. 

Then  Joseph  spake  :  "  Thy  boy  hath  largely  grown  ; 
Weave  him  fine  raiment,  fitting  to  be  shown  ; 
Fair  robes  beseem  the  pilgrim,  as  the  priest : 
Goes  he  not  with  us  to  the  holy  feast  ?  " 


82  PICTURES  FKOM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

And  Mary  culled  the  flaxen  fibres  white ; 
Till  eve  she  spun ;  she  spun  till  morning  light. 
The  thread  was  twined ;  its  parting  meshes  through 
From  hand  to  hand  her  restless  shuttle  flew, 
Till  the  full  web  was  wound  upon  the  beam ; 
Love's  curious  toil,  —  a  vest  without  a  seam ! 

They  reach  the  Holy  Place,  fulfil  the  days 
To  solemn  feasting  given,  and  grateful  praise. 
At  last  they  turn,  and  far  Moriah's  height 
Melts  in  the  southern  sky  and  fades  from  sight. 
All  day  the  dusky  caravan  has  flowed 
In  devious  trails  along  the  winding  road ; 
(For  many  a  step  their  homeward  path  attends, 
And  all  the  sons  of  Abraham  are  as  friends.) 
Evening  has  come,  —  the  hour  of  rest  and  joy,  — 
Hush  !     Hush  !     That   whisper,  —  "  Where  is  Mary's 
boy?" 

O  weary  hour !     O  aching  days  that  passed 
Filled  with  strange  fears  each  wilder  than  the  last,  — 
The  soldier's  lance,  the  fierce  centurion's  sword, 
The  crushing  wheels  that  whirl  some  Roman  lord, 
The  midnight  crypt  that  sucks  the  captive's  breath, 
The  blistering  sun  on  Hinnom's  vale  of  death ! 

Thrice  on  his  cheek  had  rained  the  morning  light ; 
Thrice  on  his  lips  the  mildewed  kiss  of  night, 


A  MOTHER'S  SECRET.  83 

Crouched  by  a  sheltering  column's  shining  plinth, 
Or  stretched  beneath  the  odorous  terebinth. 

At  last,  in  desperate  mood,  they  sought  once  more 
The  Temple's  porches,  searched  in  vain  before ; 
They  found  him  seated  with  the  ancient  men,  — 
The  grim  old  rufflers  of  the  tongue  and  pen,  — 
Their  bald  heads  glistening  as  they  clustered  near, 
Their  gray  beards  slanting  as  they  turned  to  hear, 
Lost  in  half-envious  wonder  and  surprise 
That  lips  so  fresh  should  utter  words  so  wise. 

And  Mary  said,  —  as  one  who,  tried  too  long, 
Tells  all  her  grief  and  half  her  sense  of  wrong,  — 
"What  is  this   thoughtless  thing   which  thou  hast 

done  ? 
Lo,  we  have  sought  thee  sorrowing,  O  my  son  ! " 

Few  words  he  spake,  and  scarce  of  filial  tone, 
Strange  words,  their  sense  a  mystery  yet  unknown ; 
Then  turned  with  them  and  left  the  holy  hill, 
To  all  their  mild  commands  obedient  still. 

The  tale  was  told  to  Nazareth's  sober  men, 
And  Nazareth's  matrons  told  it  oft  again, 
The  maids  retold  it  at  the  fountain's  side, 
The  youthful  shepherds  doubted  or  denied  ; 
It  passed  around  among  the  listening  friends, 
With  all  that  fancy  adds  and  fiction  lends, 


84  PICTUEES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Till  newer  marvels  dimmed  the  young  renown 
Of  Joseph's  son,  who  talked  the  Rabbis  down. 

But  Mary,  faithful  to  its  lightest  word, 
Kept  in  her  heart  the  sayings  she  had  heard, 
Till  the  dread  morning  rent  the  Temple's  veil, 
And  shuddering  earth  confirmed  the  wondrous  tale, 

Youth  fades ;  love  droops ;  the  leaves  of  friendship  fall ; 
A  mother's  secret  hope  outlives  them  all. 


THE    DISAPPOINTED    STATESMAN. 

Wno  of  all  statesmen  is  his  country's  pride, 
Her  councils'  prompter  and  her  leaders'  guide  ? 
He  speaks  ;  the  nation  holds  its  breath  to  hear ; 
He  nods,  and  shakes  the  sunset  hemisphere. 
Born  where  the  primal  fount  of  Nature  springs 
By  the  rude  cradles  of  her  throneless  kings, 
In  his  proud  eye  her  royal  signet  flames, 
By  his  own  lips  her  Monarch  she  proclaims. 

Why  name  his  countless  triumphs,  whom  to  meet 
Is  to  be  famous,  envied  in  defeat  ? 
The  keen  debaters,  trained  to  brawls  and  strife, 
Who  fire  one  shot,  and  finish  with  the  knife, 


THE  DISAPPOINTED  STATESMAN.  85 

Tried  him  but  once,  and,  cowering  in  their  shame, 

Ground  their  hacked  blades  to  strike  at  meaner  game. 

The  lordly  chief,  his  party's  central  stay, 

Whose  lightest  word  a  hundred  votes  obey, 

Found  a  new  listener  seated  at  his  side, 

Looked  in  his  eye,  and  felt  himself  defied, 

Flung  his  rash  gauntlet  on  the  startled  floor, 

Met  the  all-conquering,  fought  —  and  ruled  no  more. 

See  where  he  moves,  what  eager  crowds  attend ! 
What  shouts  of  thronging  multitudes  ascend ! 
If  this  is  life,  —  to  mark  with  every  hour 
The  purple  deepening  in  his  robes  of  power, 
To  see  the  painted  fruits  of  honor  fall 
Thick  at  his  feet,  and  choose  among  them  all, 
To  hear  the  sounds  that  shape  his  spreading  name 
Peal  through  the  myriad  organ-stops  of  fame, 
Stamp  the  lone  isle  that  spots  the  seaman's  chart, 
And  crown  the  pillared  glory  of  the  mart, 
To  count  as  peers  the  few  supremely  wise 
Who  mark  their  planet  in  the  angels'  eyes,  — 
If  this  is  life  — 

What  savage  man  is  he 
Who  strides  alone  beside  the  sounding  sea  ? 
Alone  he  wanders  by  the  murmuring  shore, 
His  thoughts  as  restless  as  the  waves  that  roar ; 


86  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

Looks  on  the  sullen  sky  as  stormy-browed 
As  on  the  waves  yon  tempest-brooding  cloud, 
Heaves  from  his  aching  breast  a  wailing  sigh, 
Sad  as  the  gust  that  sweeps  the  clouded  sky. 

Ask  him  his  griefs ;  what  midnight  demons  plough 
The  lines  of  torture  on  his  lofty  brow ; 
Unlock  those  marble  lips  and  bid  them  speak 
The  mystery  freezing  in  his  bloodless  cheek. 

His  secret  ?     Hid  beneath  a  flimsy  word  ; 
One  foolish  whisper  that  ambition  heard ; 
And  thus  it  spake :  "  Behold  yon  gilded  chair, 
The  world's  one  vacant  throne,  —  thy  place  is  there  ! 

Ah,  fatal  dream !     What  warning  spectres  meet 
In  ghastly  circle  round  its  shadowy  seat ! 
Yet  still  the  Tempter  murmurs  in  his  ear 
The  maddening  taunt  he  cannot  choose  but  hear  : 
"  Meanest  of  slaves,  by  Gods  and  men  accurst, 
He  who  is  second  when  he  might  be  first ! 
Climb  with  bold  front  the  ladder's  topmost  round, 
Or  chain  thy  creeping  footsteps  to  the  ground  !  " 

Illustrious  Dupe !     Have  those  majestic  eyes 
Lost  their  proud  fire  for  such  a  vulgar  prize  ? 
Art  thou  the  last  of  all  mankind  to  know 
That  party -fights  are  won  by  aiming  low  ? 
Thou,  stamped  by  Nature  with  her  royal  sign, 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  STARS.  87 

That  party-hirelings  hate  a  look  like  thine  ? 
Shake  from  thy  sense  the  wild  delusive  dream ! 
"Without  the  purple,  art  thou  not  supreme  ? 
And  soothed  by  love  unbought,  thy  heart  shall  own 
A  nation's  homage  nobler  than  its  throne ! 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  STARS. 

Is  man's  the  only  throbbing  heart  that  hides 
The  silent  spring  that  feeds  its  whispering  tides  ? 
Speak  from  thy  caverns,  mystery-breeding  Earth, 
Tell  the  half-hinted  story  of  thy  birth, 
And  calm  the  noisy  champions  who  have  thrown 
The  book  of  types  against  the  book  of  stone ! 

Have  ye  not  secrets,  ye  refulgent  spheres, 
No  sleepless  listener  of  the  starlight  hears  ? 
In  vain  the  sweeping  equatorial  pries 
Through  every  world-sown  corner  of  the  skies, 
To  the  far  orb  that  so  remotely  strays 
Our  midnight  darkness  is  its  noonday  blaze ; 
In  vain  the  climbing  soul  of  creeping  man 
Metes  out  the  heavenly  concave  with  a  span, 
Tracks  into  space  the  long-lost  meteor's  trail, 


88  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

And  weighs  an  unseen  planet  in  the  scale ; 

Still  o'er  their  doubts  the  wan-eyed  watchers  sigh, 

And  Science  lifts  her  still  unanswered  cry : 

"  Are  all  these  worlds,  that  speed  their  circling  flight, 

Dumb,  vacant,  soulless,  —  bawbles  of  the  night  ? 

Warmed  with  God's  smile  and  wafted  by  his  breath, 

To  weave  in  ceaseless  round  the  dance  of  Death  ? 

Or  rolls  a  sphere  in  each  expanding  zone, 

Crowned  with  a  life  as  varied  as  our  own  ?  " 

MAKER  of  earth  and  stars  !     If  thou  hast  taught 
By  what  thy  voice  hath  spoke,  thy  hand  hath  wrought, 
By  all  that  Science  proves,  or  guesses  true, 
More  than  thy  Poet  dreamed,  thy  Prophet  knew,  — • 
The  heavens  still  bow  in  darkness  at  thy  feet, 
And  shadows  veil  thy  cloud-pavilioned  seat ! 

Not  for  ourselves  we  ask  thee  to  reveal 
One  awful  word  beneath  the  future's  seal ; 
What  thou  shalt  tell  us,  grant  us  strength  to  bear ; 
What  thou  withholdest  is  thy  single  care. 
Not  for  ourselves ;  the  present  clings  too  fast, 
Moored  to  the  mighty  anchors  of  the  past ; 
But  when,  with  angry  snap,  some  cable  parts, 
The  sound  re-echoing  in  our  startled  hearts,  — 
When,  through  the  wall  that  clasps  the  harbor  round, 


THE  SECRET  OF  THE  STAES.  89 

And  shuts  the  raving  ocean  from  its  bound, 
Shattered  and  rent  by  sacrilegious  hands, 
The  first  mad  billow  leaps  upon  the  sands,  — 
Then  to  the  Future's  awful  page  we  turn, 
And  what  we  question  hardly  dare  to  learn. 

Still  let  us  hope !  for  while  we  seem  to  tread 
The  time-worn  pathway  of  the  nations  dead, 
Though  Sparta  laughs  at  all  our  warlike  deeds, 
And  buried  Athens  claims  our  stolen  creeds, 
Though  Rome,  a  spectre  on  her  broken  throne, 
Beholds  our  eagle  and  recalls  her  own, 
Though  England  fling  her  pennons  on  the  breeze 
And  reign  before  us  Mistress  of  the  seas,  — 
While  calm-eyed  History  tracks  us  circling  round 
Fate's  iron  pillar  where  they  all  were  bound, 
She  sees  new  beacons  crowned  with  brighter  flame 
Than  the  old  watch-fires,  like,  but  not  the  same  ! 
Still  in  our  path  a  larger  curve  she  finds, 
The  spiral  widening  as  the  chain  unwinds ! 
No  shameless  haste  shall  spot  with  bandit-crime 
Our  destined  empire  snatched  before  its  time. 
Wait,  —  wait,  undoubting,  for  the  winds  have  caught 
From  our  bold  speech  the  heritage  of  thought ; 
No  marble  form  that  sculptured  truth  can  wear 
Vies  with  the  image  shaped  in  viewless  air ; 


90  PICTURES  FROM  OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

And  thought  unfettered  grows  through  speech  to  deeds, 
As  the  broad  forest  marches  in  its  seeds. 
What  though  we  perish  ere  the  day  is  won  ? 
Enough  to  see  its  glorious  work  begun ! 
The  thistle  falls  before  a  trampling  clown, 
But  who  can  chain  the  flying  thistle-down  ? 
Wait  while  the  fiery  seeds  of  freedom  fly, 
The  prairie  blazes  when  the  grass  is  dry ! 

What  arms  might  ravish,  leave  to  peaceful  arts, 
Wisdom  and  love  shall  win  the  roughest  hearts ; 
So  shall  the  angel  who  has  closed  for  man 
The  blissful  garden  since  his  woes  began 
Swing  wide  the  golden  portals  of  the  West, 
And  Eden's  secret  stand  at  length  confessed ! 


TO   GOVEKNOK    SWAIN, 


DEAR  GOVERNOR,  if  my  skiff  might  brave 
The  winds  that  lift  the  ocean  wave, 
The  mountain  stream  that  loops  and  swerves 
Through  my  broad  meadow's  channelled  curves 
Should  waft  me  on  from  bound  to  bound 
To  where  the  River  weds  the  Sound, 
The  Sound  should  give  me  to  the  Sea, 
That  to  the  Bay,  the  Bay  to  Thee. 

It  may  not  be ;  too  long  the  track 

To  follow  down  or  struggle  back. 

The  sun  has  set  on  fair  Naushon 

Long  ere  my  western  blaze  is  gone ; 

The  ocean  disk  is  rolling  dark 

In  shadows  round  your  swinging  bark, 

While  yet  the  yellow  sunset  fills 

The  stream  that  scarfs  my  spruce-clad  hills  ; 


92  TO  GOVERNOR  SWAIN. 

The  day-star  wakes  your  island  deer 
Long  ere  my  barn-yard  chanticleer ; 
Your  mists  are  soaring  in  the  blue 
While  mine  are  sparks  of  glittering  dew. 

It  may  not  be ;  O  would  it  might, 
Could  I  live  o'er  that  glowing  night ! 
What  golden  hours  would  come  to  life, 
What  goodly  feats  of  peaceful  strife,  — 
Such  jests,  that,  drained  of  every  joke, 
The  very  bank  of  language  broke,  — 
Such  deeds,  that  laughter  nearly  died 
With  stitches  in  his  belted  side ; 
While  Time,  caught  fast  in  pleasure's  chain, 
His  double  goblet  snapped  in  twain, 
And  stood  with  half  in  either  hand,  — 
Both  brimming  full,  —  but  not  of  sand ! 

It  may  not  be  ;  I  strive  in  vain 

To  break  my  slender  household  chain,  — 

Three  pairs  of  little  clasping  hands, 

One  voice,  that  whispers,  not  commands. 

Even  while  my  spirit  flies  away, 

My  gentle  jailers  murmur  nay  ; 

All  shapes  of  elemental  wrath 


TO  GOVERNOR  SWAIN.  93 

They  raise  along  my  threatened  path  ; 
The  storm  grows  black,  the  waters  rise, 
The  mountains  mingle  with  the  skies, 
The  mad  tornado  scoops  the  ground, 
The  midnight  robber  prowls  around,  — 
Thus,  kissing  every  limb  they  tie, 
They  draw  a  knot  and  heave  a  sigh, 
Till,  fairly  netted  in  the  toil, 
My  feet  are  rooted  to  the  soil. 
Only  the  soaring  wish  is  free !  — 
And  that,  dear  Governor,  flies  to  thee ! 

PlTTSFIELD,   1851. 


TO  AN  ENGLISH  FEIEND. 


THE  seed  that  wasteful  autumn  cast 
To  waver  on  its  stormy  blast, 
Long  o'er  the  wintry  desert  tost, 
Its  living  germ  has  never  lost. 
Dropped  by  the  weary  tempest's  wing, 
It  feels  the  kindling  ray  of  spring, 
And,  starting  from  its  dream  of  death, 
Pours  on  the  air  its  perfumed  breath. 

So,  parted  by  the  rolling  flood, 

The  love  that  springs  from  common  blood 

Needs  but  a  single  sunlit  hour 

Of  mingling  smiles  to  bud  and  flower ; 

Unharmed  its  slumbering  life  has  flown, 

From  shore  to  shore,  from  zone  to  zone, 

Where  summer's  falling  roses  stain 

The  tepid  waves  of  Pontchartrain, 


TO  AN  ENGLISH  FRIEND.  95 

Or  where  the  lichen  creeps  below 
Katahdin's  wreaths  of  whirling  snow. 


Though  fiery  sun  and  stiffening  cold 
May  change  the  fair  ancestral  mould, 
No  winter  chills,  no  summer  drains 
The  life-blood  drawn  from  English  veins, 
Still  bearing  wheresoe'er  it  flows 
The  love  that  with  its  fountain  rose, 
Unchanged  by  space,  unwronged  by  time, 
From  age  to  age,  from  clime  to  clime  ! 
1852. 


VIGNETTES. 

1853. 
AFTER  A   LECTURE  ON  WORDSWORTH. 

COME,  spread  your  wings,  as  I  spread  mine, 

And  leave  the  crowded  hall 
For  where  the  eyes  of  twilight  shine 

O'er  evening's  western  wall. 

These  are  the  pleasant  Berkshire  hills, 

Each  with  its  leafy  crown  ; 
Hark  !  from  their  sides  a  thousand  rills 

Come  singing  sweetly  down. 

A  thousand  rills  ;  they  leap  and  shine, 
Strained  through  the  shadowy  nooks, 

Till,  clasped  in  many  a  gathering  twine, 
They  swell  a  hundred  brooks. 


AFTER  A  LECTURE   ON  WORDSWORTH.  97 

A  hundred  brooks,  and  still  they  run 

With  ripple,  shade,  and  gleam, 
Till,  clustering  all  their  braids  in  one, 

They  flow  a  single  stream. 

A  bracelet  spun  from  mountain  mist, 

A  silvery  sash  unwound, 
With  ox-bow  curve  and  sinuous  twist 

It  writhes  to  reach  the  Sound. 

This  is  my  bark,  —  a  pigmy's  ship  ; 

Beneath  a  child  it  rolls  ; 
Fear  not,  —  one  body  makes  it  dip, 

But  not  a  thousand  souls. 

Float  we  the  grassy  banks  between  ; 

Without  an  oar  we  glide ; 
The  meadows,  drest  in  living  green, 

Unroll  on  either  side. 

—  Come,  take  the  book  we  love  so  well, 

And  let  us  read  and  dream 
We  see  whate'er  its  pages  tell, 

And  sail  an  English  stream. 


98  VIGNETTES. 

Up  to  the  clouds  the  lark  has  sprung, 

Still  trilling  as  he  flies  ; 
The  linnet  sings  as  there  he  sung ; 

The  unseen  cuckoo  cries, 

And  daisies  strew  the  banks  along, 
And  yellow  kingcups  shine, 

With  cowslips,  and  a  primrose  throng, 
And  humble  celandine. 

Ah  foolish  dream  !    when  Nature  nursed 

Her  daughter  in  the  West, 
The  fount  was  drained  that  opened  first ; 

She  bared  her  other  breast. 

On  the  young  planet's  orient  shore 
Her  morning  hand  she  tried  ; 

Then  turned  the  broad  medallion  o'er 
And  stamped  the  sunset  side. 

Take  what  she  gives,  her  pine's  tall  stem, 
Her  elm  with  hanging  spray  ; 

She  wears  her  mountain  diadem 
Still  in  her  own  proud  way. 


AFTER  A  LECTURE   ON  WORDSWORTH.  99 

Look  on  the  forests*  ancient  kings, 

The  hemlock's  towering  pride  : 
Yon  trunk  had  thrice  a  hundred  rings, 

And  fell  before  it  died. 

Nor  think  that  Nature  saves  her  bloom 

And  slights  our  grassy  plain  ; 
For  us  she  wears  her  court  costume,  — 

Look  on  its  broidered  train ; 

The  lily  with  the  sprinkled  dots, 

Brands  of  the  noontide  beam  ; 
The  cardinal,  and  the  blood-red  spots, 

Its  double  in  the  stream, 

As  if  some  wounded  eagle's  breast, 

Slow  throbbing  o'er  the  plain, 
Had  left  its  airy  path  impressed 

In  drops  of  scarlet  rain. 

And  hark  !  and  hark !  the  woodland  rings  ; 

There  thrilled  the  thrush's  soul ; 
And  look !  that  flash  of  flamy  wings,  — 

The  fire-plumed  oriole ! 


100  VIGNETTES. 

Above,  the  lien-hawk  swims  and  swoops, 
Flung  from  the  bright,  blue  sky  ; 

Below,  the  robin  hops,  and  whoops 
His  piercing,  Indian  cry. 

Beauty  runs  virgin  in  the  woods 

Robed  in  her  rustic  green, 
And  oft  a  longing  thought  intrudes, 

As  if  we  might  have  seen 

Her  every  finger's  every  joint 
Ringed  with  some  golden  line, 

Poet  whom  Nature  did  anoint ! 
Had  our  wild  home  been  thine. 

Yet  think  not  so  ;  Old  England's  blood 
Runs  warm  in  English  veins  ; 

But  wafted  o'er  the  icy  flood 
Its  better  life  remains  : 

Our  children  know  each  wild-wood  smell, 
The  bayberry  and  the  fern, 

The  man  who  does  not  know  them  well 
Is  all  too  old  to  learn. 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  MOORE.  101 

Be  patient !    On  the  breathing  page 

Still  pants  our  hurried  past ; 
Pilgrim  and  soldier,  saint  and  sage,  — 

The  poet  comes  the  last ! 

Though  still  the  lark-voiced  matins  ring 

The  world  has  known  so  long  ; 
The  wood-thrush  of  the  West  shall  sing 

Earth's  last  sweet  even-song ! 


AFTER  A  LECTURE   ON  MOORE. 

SHINE  soft,  ye  trembling  tears  of  light 
That  strew  the  mourning  skies ; 

Hushed  in  the  silent  dews  of  night 
The  harp  of  Erin  lies. 

What  though  her  thousand  years  have  past 

Of  poets,  saints,  and  kings,  — 
Her  echoes  only  hear  the  last 

That  swept  those  golden  strings. 


102  VIGNETTES. 

Fling  o'er  his  mound,  ye  star-lit  bowers, 

"The  balmiest  wreaths  ye  wear, 
Whos^breath  has  lent  your  earth-born  flowers 

Heaven's*  own  ambrosial  air. 

>» 

» 

Breathe,  bird  of  night,  thy  softest  tone, 

By  shadowy  grove  and  rill ; 
Thy  song  will  soothe  us  while  we  own 

That  his  was  sweeter  still. 


Stay,  pitying  Time,  thy  foot  for  him 

"t^ljo^ay^  ihee  swifter  wings, 
Nor  let  thine  envious  shadow  dim 
The  light  his  glory  flings. 

If  in  his  cheek  unholy  blood 
Burned  for  one  youthful  hour, 

'T  was  but  the  flushing  of  the  bud 
That  blooms  a  milk-white  flower. 

Take  him,  kind  mother,  to  thy  breast, 
Who  loved  thy  smiles  so  well, 

And  spread  thy  mantle  o'er  his  rest 
Of  rose  and  asphodel. 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  MOORE.  103 

—  The  bark  has  sailed  the  midnight  sea, 
The  sea  without  a  shore,  * 

That  waved  its  parting  sign  to  thee,  «^ 
"  A  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moo^-l" 

0 

m 

And  thine,  long  lingering  on  the  strand, 

Its  bright-hued  streamers  furled, 
Was  loosed  by  age,  with  trembling  hand, 

To  seek  the  silent  .world. 

Not  silent !  no,  the  radiant  stars 

Still  singing  as  they  shine, 
Unheard  through  earth's  imprisoning  bars, 

Have  voices  sweet  as  thine. 

Wake,  then,  in  happier  realms  above 

The  songs  of  bygone  years, 
Till  angels  learn  those  airs  of  love 

That  ravished  mortal  ears  ! 


104  VIGNETTES. 

AFTER  A  LECTURE   ON  KEATS. 
"  Purpureos  spargam  flores." 

THE  wreath  that  star-crowned  Shelley  gave 

Is  lying  on  thy  Roman  grave, 

Yet  on  its  turf  young  April  sets 

Her  store  of  slender  violets ; 

Though  all  the  Gods  their  garlands  shower, 

I  too  may  bring  one  purple  flower. 

—  Alas !  what  blossom  shall  I  bring, 

That  opens  in  my  Northern  spring  ? 

The  garden  beds  have  all  run  wild, 

So  trim  when  I  was  yet  a  child ; 

Flat  plantains  and  unseemly  stalks 

Have  crept  across  the  gravel  walks  ; 

The  vines  are  dead,  long,  long  ago, 

The  almond  buds  no  longer  blow. 

No  more  upon  its  mound  I  see 

The  azure,  plume-bound  fleur-de-lis  ; 

"Where  once  the  tulips  used  to  show, 

In  straggling  tufts  the  pansies  grow  ; 

The  grass  has  quenched  my  white-rayed  gem, 

The  flowering  "  Star  of  Bethlehem," 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  KEATS.  105 

Though  its  long  blade  of  glossy  green 
And  pallid  stripe  may  still  be  seen. 
Nature,  who  treads  her  nobles  down, 
And  gives  their  birthright  to  the  clown, 
Has  sown  her  base-born  weedy  things 
Above  the  garden's  queens  and  kings. 

—  Yet  one  sweet  flower  of  ancient  race 
Springs  in  the  old  familiar  place. 
When  snows  were  melting  down  the  vale, 
And  Earth  unlaced  her  icy  mail, 

And  March  his  stormy  trumpet  blew, 
And  tender  green  came  peeping  through, 
I  loved  the  earliest  one  to  seek 
That  broke  the  soil  with  emerald  beak, 
And  watch  the  trembling  bells  so  blue 
Spread  on  the  column  as  it  grew. 
Meek  child  of  earth  !  thou  wilt  not  shame 
The  sweet,  dead  poet's  holy  name ; 
The  God  of  music  gave  thee  birth 
Called  from  the  crimson-spotted  earth, 
Where,  sobbing  his  young  life  away, 
His  own  fair  Hyacinthus  lay. 

—  The  hyacinth  my  garden  gave 
Shall  lie  upon  that  Roman  grave ! 


106  VIGNETTES. 


AFTER  A  LECTURE  ON  SHELLEY. 

ONE  broad,  white  sail  in  Spezzia's  treacherous  bay ; 

On  comes  the  blast ;  too  daring  bark,  beware ! 
The  cloud  has  clasped  her ;  lo !   it  melts  away  ; 

The  wide,  waste  waters,  but  no  sail  is  there. 

Morning :  a  woman  looking  on  the  sea  ; 

Midnight :  with  lamps  the  long  verandah  burns  ; 
Come,  wandering  sail,  they  watch,  they  burn  for  thee ! 

Suns  come  and  go,  alas  !  no  bark  returns. 

And  feet  are  thronging  on  the  pebbly  sands, 
And  torches  flaring  in  the  weedy  caves, 

Where'er  the  waters  lay  with  icy  hands 

The  shapes  uplifted  from  their  coral  graves. 

Vainly,  they  seek  ;  the  idle  quest  is  o'er  ; 

The  coarse,  dark  women,  with  their  hanging  locks, 
And  lean,  wild  children  gather  from  the  shore 

To  the  black  hovels  bedded  in  the  rocks. 


AFTER  A  LECTURE   ON   SfiELLEY.  107 

But  Love  still  prayed,  with  agonizing  wail, 

"  One,  one  last  look,  ye  heaving  waters,  yield  !  " 

Till  Ocean,  clashing  in  his  jointed  mail, 
Raised  the  pale  burden  on  his  level  shield. 

Slow  from  the  shore  the  sullen  waves  retire  ; 

His  form  a  nobler  element  shall  claim  ; 
Nature  baptized  him  in  ethereal  fire, 

And  Death  shall  crown  him  with  a  wreath  of  flame. 

Fade,  mortal  semblance,  never  to  return  ; 

Swift  is  the  change  within  thy  crimson  shroud ; 
Seal  the  white  ashes  in  the  peaceful  urn  ; 

All  else  has  risen  in  yon  silvery  cloud. 

Sleep  where  thy  gentle  Adonais  lies, 

Whose  open  page  lay  on  thy  dying  heart, 

Both  in  the  smile  of  those  blue-vaulted  skies, 
Earth's  fairest  dome  of  all  divinest  art. 


108  VIGNETTES. 


AT    THE    CLOSE  OF   A   COURSE    OF  LECTURES. 

As  the  voice  of  the  watch  to  the  mariner's  dream  ; 
As  the  footstep  of  Spring  on  the  ice-girdled  stream, 
There  comes  a  soft  footstep,  a  whisper,  to  me,  — 
The  vision  is  over,  —  the  rivulet  free  ! 

We  have  trod  from  the  threshold  of  turbulent  March, 
Till  the  green  scarf  of  April  is  hung  on  the  larch, 
And  down  the  bright  hill-side  that  welcomes  the  day, 
We  hear  the  warm  panting  of  beautiful  May. 

We  will  part  before  Summer  has  opened  her  wing, 
And  the  bosom  of  June  swells  the  bodice  of  Spring, 
While  the  hope  of  the  season  lies  fresh  in  the  bud, 
And  the  young  life  of  Nature  runs  warm  in  our  blood. 

It  is  but  a  word,  and  the  chain  is  unbound, 
The  bracelet  of  steel  drops  unclasped  to  the  ground  ; 
No  hand  shall  replace  it,  —  it  rests  where  it  fell,  — 
It  is  but  one  word  that  we  all  know  too  well. 


AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  A  COUESE  OF  LECTURES.      109 

Yet  the  hawk  with  the  wildness  untamed  in  his  eye, 
If  you  free  him,  stares  round  ere  he  springs  to  the  sky  ; 
The  slave  whom  no  longer  his  fetters  restrain 
"Will  turn  for  a  moment  and  look  at  his  chain. 

Our  parting  is  not  as  the  friendship  of  years, 
That  chokes  with  the  blessing  it  speaks  through  its  tears  ; 
"We  have  walked  in  a  garden,  and,  looking  around, 
Have  plucked  a  few  leaves  from  the  myrtles  we  found. 

But  now  at  the  gate  of  the  garden  we  stand, 
And  the  moment  has  come  for  unclasping  the  hand ; 
"Will  you  drop  it  like  lead,  and  in  silence  retreat 
Like  the  twenty  crushed  forms  from  an  omnibus  seat  ? 

Nay  !  hold  it  one  moment,  —  the  last  we  may  share,  — 
I  stretch  it  in  kindness,  and  not  for  my  fare  ; 
You  may  pass  through  the  doorway  in  rank  or  in  file, 
If  your  ticket  from  Nature  is  stamped  with  a  smile. 

For  the  sweetest  of  smiles  is  the  smile  as  we  part, 
"When  the  light  round  the  lips  is  a  ray  from  the  heart ; 
And  lest  a  stray  tear  from  its  fountain  might  swell, 
We  will  seal  the  bright  spring  with  a  quiet  farewell. 


110  VIGNETTES. 


THE  HUDSON. 

AFTEE  A  LECTURE  AT  ALBANY. 

'T  WAS  a  vision  of  childhood  that  came  with  its  dawn, 
Ere  the  curtain  that  covered  life's  day-star  was  drawn ; 
The  nurse  told  the  tale  when  the  shadows  grew  long, 
And  the  mother's  soft  lullaby  breathed  it  in  song. 

"  There  flows  a  fair  stream  by  the  hills  of  the  west,"  — 
She  sang  to  her  boy  as  he  lay  on  her  breast ; 
"  Along  its  smooth  margin  thy  fathers  have  played  ; 
Beside  its  deep  waters  their  ashes  are  laid." 

I  wandered  afar  from  the  land  of  my  birth, 
I  saw  the  old  rivers,  renowned  upon  earth, 
But  fancy  still  painted  that  wide-flowing  stream 
With  the  many-hued  pencil  of  infancy's  dream. 

I  saw  the  green  banks  of  the  castle-crowned  Rhine, 
Where  the  grapes  drink  the  moonlight  and  change  it  to 

wine ; 

I  stood  by  the  Avon,  whose  waves  as  they  glide 
Still  whisper  his  glory  who  sleeps  at  their  side. 


THE  HUDSON.  Ill 

But  my  heart  would  still  yearn  for  the  sound  of  the 

waves 

That  sing  as  they  flow  by  my  forefathers'  graves  ; 
If  manhood  yet  honors  my  cheek  with  a  tear, 
I  care  not  who  sees  it,  —  no  blush  for  it  here  ! 

Farewell  to  the  deep-bosomed  stream  of  the  West ! 
I  fling  this  loose  blossom  to  float  on  its  breast ; 
Nor  let  the  dear  love  of  its  children  grow  cold, 
Till  the  channel  is  dry  where  its  waters  have  rolled ! 

DECEMBER,  1854. 


A   POEM 

FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  AMERICAN  MEDICAL  ASSOCIATION 

AT  NEW  YORK,  MAY  5,   1853. 

I  HOLD  a  letter  in  my  hand,  — 

A  flattering  letter  —  more  's  the  pity,  — 
By  some  contriving  junto  planned, 

And  signed  per  order  of  Committee  ; 
It  touches  every  tenderest  spot,  — 

My  patriotic  predilections, 
My  well  known  —  something  —  don't  ask  what, 

My  poor  old  songs,  my  kind  affections. 

They  make  a  feast  on  Thursday  next, 
And  hope  to  make  the  feasters  merry  ; 

They  own  they  're  something  more  perplexed 
For  poets  than  for  port  and  sherry ;  — 

They  want  the  men  of —  (word  torn  out)  ; 
Our  friends  will  come  with  anxious  faces 


A  POEM.  113 

(To  see  our  blankets  off,  no  doubt, 
And  trot  us  out  and  show  our  paces). 

They  hint  that  papers  by  the  score 

Are  rather  musty  kind  of  rations  ; 
They  don't  exactly  mean  a  bore, 

But  only  trying  to  the  patience  ; 
That  such  as  —  you  know  who  I  mean  — 

Distinguished  for  their  —  what  d'  ye  call  'eni  — 
Should  bring  the  dews  of  Hippocrene 

To  sprinkle  on  the  faces  solemn. 

—  The  same  old  story ;  that 's  the  chaff 

To  catch  the  birds  that  sing  the  ditties ; 
Upon  my  soul,  it  makes  me  laugh 

To  read  these  letters  from  Committees ! 
They  're  all  so  loving  and  so  fair,  — 

All  for  your  sake  such  kind  compunction,  — 
'T  would  save  your  carriage  half  its  wear 

To  touch  its  wheels  with  such  an  unction ! 

"Why,  who  am  I,  to  lift  me  here 

And  beg  such  learned  folk  to  listen,  — 

To  ask  a  smile,  or  coax  a  tear 

Beneath  these  stoic  lids  to  glisten  ? 

H 


114  A  POEM. 

As  well  might  some  arterial  thread 

Ask  the  whole  frame  to  feel  it  gushing, 

While  throbbing  fierce  from  heel  to  head 
The  vast  aortic  tide  was  rushing. 

As  well  some  hair-like  nerve  might  strain 

To  set  its  special  streamlet  going, 
While  through  the  myriad-channelled  brain 

The  burning  flood  of  thought  was  flowing  ; 
Or  trembling  fibre  strive  to  keep 

The  springing  haunches  gathered  shorter, 
While  the  scourged  racer,  leap  on  leap, 

Was  stretching  through  the  last  hot  quarter  ! 

Ah  me !  you  take  the  bud  that  came 

Self-sown  in  your  poor  garden's  borders, 
And  hand  it  to  the  stately  dame 

That  florists  breed  for,  all  she  orders ; 
She  thanks  you  —  it  was  kindly  meant  — 

(A  pale  affair,  not  worth  the  keeping})  — 
Good  morning  ;  —  and  your  bud  is  sent 

To  join  the  tea-leaves  used  for  sweeping. 

Not  always  so,  kind  hearts  and  true,  — 
For  such  I  know  are  round  me  beating  ; 


A  TOEM.  1 1  o 

Is  not  the  bud  I  offer  you,  — 

Fresh  gathered  for  the  hour  of  meeting,  — 
Pale  though  its  outer  leaves  may  be, 

Rose-red  in  all  its  inner  petals, 
Where  the  warm  life  we  cannot  see  — 

The  life  of  love  that  gave  it  —  settles  ? 

We  meet  from  regions  far  away, 

Like  rills  from  distant  mountains  streaming ; 
The  sun  is  on  Francisco's  bay 

O'er  Chesapeake  the  lighthouse  gleaming  ; 
While  summer  girds  the  still  bayou 

In  chains  of  bloom,  her  bridal  token, 
Monadnock  sees  the  sky  grow  blue, 

His  crystal  bracelet  yet  unbroken. 

Yet  Nature  bears  the  self-same  heart 

Beneath  her  russet-mantled  bosom, 
As  where  with  burning  lips  apart 

She  breathes,  and  white  magnolias  blossom ; 
The  self-same  founts  her  chalice  fill 

With  showery  sunlight  running  over, 
On  fiery  plain  and  frozen  hill, 

On  myrtle-beds  and  fields  of  clover. 


116  A  POEM. 

I  give  you  Home  !  its  crossing  lines 

United  in  one  golden  suture, 
And  showing  every  day  that  shines 

The  present  growing  to  the  future,  — 
A  flag  that  bears  a  hundred  stars, 

In  one  bright  ring,  with  love  for  centre, 
Fenced  round  with  white  and  crimson  bars, 

No  prowling  treason  dares  to  enter ! 

O  brothers,  home  may  be  a  word 

To  make  affection's  living  treasure  — 
The  wave  an  angel  might  have  stirred  — 

A  stagnant  pool  of  selfish  pleasure ; 
HOME  !     It  is  where  the  day-star  springs 

And  where  the  evening  sun  reposes, 
Where'er  the  eagle  spreads  his  wings, 

From  northern  pines  to  southern  roses ! 


THE    NEW    EDEN. 

(MEETING    OF    THE    BERKSHIRE    HORTICULTURAL    SOCIETY,    AT 
STOCKBRIDGE,   SEPT.  13,   1854.) 

SCARCE  could  the  parting  ocean  close, 

Seamed  by  the  Mayflower's  cleaving  bow, 

When  o'er  the  rugged  desert  rose 

The  waves  that  tracked  the  Pilgrim's  plough. 

Then  sprang  from  many  a  rock-strewn  field 
The  rippling  grass,  the  nodding  grain, 

Such  growths  as  English  meadows  yield 
To  scanty  sun  and  frequent  rain. 

But  when  the  fiery  days  were  done, 
And  Autumn  brought  his  purple  haze, 

Then,  kindling  in  the  slanted  sun, 

The  hill-sides  gleamed  with  golden  maize. 


118  THE  NEW  EDEN. 

The  food  was  scant,  the  fruits  were  few : 
A  red-streak  glistened  here  and  there ; 

Perchance  in  statelier  precincts  grew 
Some  stern  old  Puritanic  pear. 

Austere  in  taste,  and  tough  at  core, 
Its  unrelenting  bulk  was  shed, 

To  ripen  in  the  Pilgrim's  store 

When  all  the  summer  sweets  were  fled. 

Such  was  his  lot,  to  front  the  storm 
With  iron  heart  and  marble  brow, 

Nor  ripen  till  his  earthly  form 

Was  cast  from  life's  autumnal  bough. 

—  But  ever  on  the  bleakest  rock 
We  bid  the  brightest  beacon  glow, 

And  still  upon  the  thorniest  stock 
The  sweetest  roses  love  to  blow. 

So  on  our  rude  and  wintry  soil 
We  feed  the  kindling  flame  of  art, 

And  steal  the  tropic's  blushing  spoil 
To  bloom  on  Nature's  ice-clad  heart. 


THE  NEW   EDEN.  119 

See  how  the  softening  Mother's  breast 
Warms  to  her  children's  patient  wiles,  — 

Her  lips  by  loving  Labor  pressed 

Break  in  a  thousand  dimpling  smiles, 

From  when  the  flushing  bud  of  June 

Dawns  with  its  first  auroral  hue, 
Till  shines  the  rounded  harvest-moon, 

And  velvet  dahlias  drink  the  dew. 

Nor  these  the  only  gifts  she  brings  ; 

Look  where  the  laboring  orchard  groans, 
And  yields  its  beryl-threaded  strings 

For  chestnut  burs  and  hemlock  cones. 

Dear  though  the  shadowy  maple  be, 
And  dearer  still  the  whispering  pine, 

Dearest  yon  russet-laden  tree 

Browned  by  the  heavy  rubbing  kine  ! 

There  childhood  flung  its  rustling  stone, 

There  venturous  boyhood  learned  to  climb,  — • 

How  well  the  early  graft  was  known 
Whose  fruit  was  ripe  ere  harvest  time ! 


120  THE  NEW  EDEN. 

Nor  be  the  Fleming's  pride  forgot, 

With  swinging  drops  and  drooping  bells, 

Freckled  and  splashed  with  streak  and  spot, 
On  the  warm-breasted,  sloping  swells ; 

Nor  Persia's  painted  garden-queen,  — 
Frail  Houri  of  the  trellised  wall,  — 

Her  deep-cleft  bosom  scarfed  with  green,  — 
Fairest  to  see,  and  first  to  fall. 


—  When  man  provoked  his  mortal  doom, 
And  Eden  trembled  as  he  fell, 

When  blossoms  sighed  their  last  perfume, 
And  branches  waved  their  long  farewell, 

One  sucker  crept  beneath  the  gate, 
One  seed  was  wafted  o'er  the  wall, 

One  bough  sustained  his  trembling  weight ; 
These  left  the  garden,  —  these  were  all. 

And  far  o'er  many  a  distant  zone 

These  wrecks  of  Eden  still  are  flung  : 

The  fruits  that  Paradise  hath  known 
Are  still  in  earthly  gardens  hung. 


THE  NEW  EDEN.  121 

Yes,  by  our  own  unstoried  stream 
The  pink-white  apple-blossoms  burst 

That  saw  the  young  Euphrates  gleam,  — 
That  Gihon's  circling  waters  nursed. 

For  us  the  ambrosial  pear  displays 
The  wealth  its  arching  branches  hold, 

Bathed  by  a  hundred  summery  days 
In  floods  of  mingling  fire  and  gold. 

And  here,  where  beauty's  cheek  of  flame 
With  morning's  earliest  beam  is  fed, 

The  sunset-painted  peach  may  claim 
To  rival  its  celestial  red. 


—  What  though  in  some  unmoistened  vale 
The  summer  leaf  grow  brown  and  sere, 

Say,  shall  our  star  of  promise  fail 
That  circles  half  the  rolling  sphere, 

From  beaches  salt  with  bitter  spray, 
O'er  prairies  green  with  softest  rain, 

And  ridges  bright  with  evening's  ray, 
To  rocks  that  shade  the  stormless  main  ? 
6 


122  THE  NEW  EDEN. 

If  by  our  slender-threaded  streams 
The  blade  and  leaf  and  blossom  die, 

If,  drained  by  noontide's  parching  beams, 
The  milky  veins  of  Nature  dry, 

See,  with  her  swelling  bosom  bare, 
Yon  wild-eyed  Sister  in  the  "West,  — 

The  ring  of  Empire  round  her  hair, 
The  Indian's  wampum  on  her  breast ! 

We  saw  the  August  sun  descend, 
Day  after  day,  with  blood-red  stain, 

And  the  blue  mountains  dimly  blend 

With  smoke-wreaths  from  the  burning  plain ; 

Beneath  the  hot  Sirocco's  wings 

We  sat  and  told  the  withering  hours, 

Till  Heaven  unsealed  its  hoarded  springs, 
And  bade  them  leap  in  flashing  showers. 

Yet  in  our  Ishmael's  thirst  we  knew 
The  mercy  of  the  Sovereign  hand 

Would  pour  the  fountain's  quickening  dew 
To  feed  some  harvest  of  the  land. 


THE  NEW  EDEX. 


No  flaming  swords  of  wrath  surround 
Our  second  Garden  of  the  Blest ; 

It  spreads  beyond  its  rocky  bound, 
It  climbs  Nevada's  glittering  crest. 


1-23 


God  keep  the  tempter  from  its  gate  ! 

God  shield  the  children,  lest  they  fall 
From  their  stern  fathers'  free  estate,  — 

Till  Ocean  is  its  only  wall ! 


A    SENTIMENT, 


A  TRIPLE  health  to  Friendship,  Science,  Art, 
From  heads  and  hands  that  own  a  common  heart ! 
Each  in  its  turn  the  others'  willing  slave,  — 
Each  in  its  season  strong  to  heal  and  save. 

Friendship's  blind  service,  in  the  hour  of  need, 
Wipes  the  pale  face  —  and  lets  the  victim  bleed. 
Science  must  stop  to  reason  and  explain ; 
ART  claps  his  finger  on  the  streaming  vein. 

But  Art's  brief  memory  fails  the  hand  at  last ; 
Then  SCIENCE  lifts  the  flambeau  of  the  past. 
When  both  their  equal  impotence  deplore,  — 
When  Learning  sighs,  and  Skill  can  do  no  more,  — 
The  tear  of  FRIENDSHIP  pours  its  heavenly  balm, 
And  soothes  the  pang  no  anodyne  may  calm ! 

May  1st,  1855. 


SEMICENTENNIAL  CELEBEATION  OF  THE 
NEW  ENGLAND  SOCIETY, 

NEW  YORK,  DEC.   22,   1855. 

NEW  England,  we  love  thee ;  no  time  can  erase 
From  the  hearts  of  thy  children  the  smile  on  thy  face. 
'T  is  the  mother's  fond  look  of  affection  and  pride, 
As  she  gives  her  fair  son  to  the  arms  of  his  bride. 

His  bride  may  be  fresher  in  beauty's  young  flower ; 
She  may  blaze  in  the  jewels  she  brings  with  her  dower. 
But  passion  must  chill  in  Time's  pitiless  blast ; 
The  one  that  first  loved  us  will  love  to  the  last. 

You  have  left  the  dear  land  of  the  lake  and  the  hill, 
But  its  winds  and  its  waters  will  talk  with  you  still. 
"  Forget  not,"  they  whisper,  "  your  love  is  OUF  debt," 
And  echo  breathes  softly,  "  We  never  forget." 


126  SEMICENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION 

The  banquet's  gay  splendors  are  gleaming  around, 
But  your  hearts  have  flown  back  o'er  the  waves  of  the 

Sound ; 
They  have  found  the  brown  home  where  their  pulses 

were  born ; 
They  are  throbbing  their  way  through  the  trees  and  the 

corn. 

There  are  roofs  you  remember,  —  their  glory  is  fled ; 
There  are  mounds  in  the  churchyard, —  one  sigh  for  the 

dead. 

There  are  wrecks,  there  are  ruins,  all  scattered  around ; 
But  Earth  has  no  spot  like  that  corner  of  ground. 

Come,  let  us  be  cheerful,  —  remember  last  night, 
How  they  cheered  us,  and  —  never  mind  —  meant  it 

all  right ; 

To-night,  we  harm  nothing,  —  we  love  in  the  lump ; 
Here 's  a  bumper  to  Maine,  in  the  juice  of  the  pump ! 

Here 's  to  all  the  good  people,  wherever  they  be, 
Who  have  grown  in  the  shade  of  the  liberty -tree ; 
We  all  love  its  leaves,  and  its  blossoms  and  fruit, 
But  pray  have  a  care  of  the  fence  round  its  root. 


OF   THE   NE\V  ENGLAND   SOCIETY.  127 

We  should  like  to  talk  big  ;  it 's  a  kind  of  a  right, 
When  the  tongue  has  got  loose  and  the  waistband  grown 

tight; 

But,  as  pretty  Miss  Prudence  remarked  to  her  beau, 
On  its  own  heap  of  compost,  no  biddy  should  crow. 

Enough !     There  are  gentlemen  waiting  to  talk, 
Whose  words  are  to  mine  as  the  flower  to  the  stalk. 
Stand  by  your  old  mother  whatever  befall ; 
God  bless  all  her  children !     Good  night  to  you  all ! 


ODE  FOE  WASHINGTON'S  BIETIIDAY, 


CELEBRATION    OF    THE     MERCANTILE     LIBRARY     ASSOCIATION. 
FEBRUARY    22,    1856. 


WELCOME  to  the  day  returning, 

Dearer  still  as  ages  flow, 
While  the  torch  of  Faith  is  burning, 

Long  as  Freedom's  altars  glow ! 
See  the  hero  whom  it  gave  us 

Slumbering  on  a  mother's  breast ; 
For  the  arm  he  stretched  to  save  us, 

Be  its  morn  forever  blest ! 

Hear  the  tale  of  youthful  glory, 
While  of  Britain's  rescued  band 

Friend  and  foe  repeat  the  story, 
Spread  his  fame  o'er  sea  and  land, 

Where  the  red  cross  proudly  streaming, 
Flaps  above  the  frigate's  deck, 


ODE  FOR  WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY.  129 

Where  the  golden  lilies,  gleaming, 
Star  the  watch-towers  of  Quebec. 

Look !     The  shadow  on  the  dial 

Marks  the  hour  of  deadlier  strife  ; 
Days  of  terror,  years  of  trial, 

Scourge  a  nation  into  life. 
Lo,  the  youth,  become  her  leader  ! 

All  her  baffled  tyrants  yield ; 
Through  his  arm  the  Lord  hath  freed  her ; 

Crown  him  on  the  tented  field ! 

Vain  is  Empire's  mad  temptation ; 

Not  for  him  an  earthly  crown ! 
He  whose  sword  hath  freed  a  nation 

Strikes  the  offered  sceptre  down. 
See  the  throneless  Conqueror  seated, 

Ruler  by  a  people's  choice ; 
See  the  Patriot's  task  completed  ; 

Hear  the  Father's  dying  voice ! 


"  By  the  name  that  you  inherit, 
By  the  sufferings  you  recaH, 
Cherish  the  fraternal  spirit ; 

Love  your  country  first  of  all ! 
G* 

^jris^^ 

W7EB-:TY)j 


130  ODE  FOR  WASHINGTON'S  BIRTHDAY. 

Listen  not  to  idle  questions 
If  its  bands  may  be  untied ; 

Doubt  the  patriot  whose  suggestions 
Strive  a  nation  to  divide  !  " 

Father !     We,  whose  ears  have  tingled 

With  the  discord-notes  of  shame,  — 
We,  whose  sires  their  blood  have  mingled 

In  the  battle's  thunder-flame,  — 
Gathering,  while  this  holy  morning 

Lights  the  land  from  sea  to  sea, 
Hear  thy  counsel,  heed  thy  warning ; 

Trust  us,  while  we  honor  thee  ! 


CLASS   OE   '29, 


FOR    THURSDAY,    NOVEMBER    6,    1856. 


You  'LL  believe  me,  dear  boys,  't  is  a  pleasure  to  rise 
With  a  welcome  like  this  in  your  darling  old  eyes, 
To  meet  the  same  smiles  and  to  hear  the  same  tone 
Which  have  greeted  me  oft  in  the  years  that  have 
flown. 

Were  I  gray  as  the  grayest  old  rat  in  the  wall, 
My  locks  would  turn  brown  at  the  sight  of  you  all ; 
If  my  heart  were  as  dry  as  the  shell  on  the  sand, 
It  would  fill  like  the  goblet  I  hold  in  my  hand. 

There  are  noontides  of  autumn,  when  summer  returns, 
Though  the  leaves  are  all  garnered  and  sealed  in  their 

urns, 

And  the  bird  on  his  perch  that  was  silent  so  long 
Believes  the  sweet  sunshine  and  breaks  into  song. 


132  CLASS  OF  '29. 

We  liave  caged  the  young  birds  of  our  beautiful  June : 
Their  plumes  are  still  bright  and  their  voices  in  tune ; 
One  moment  of  sunshine  from  faces  like  these, 
And  they  sing  as  they  sung  in  the  green-growing  trees. 

The  voices  of  morning  !     How  sweet  is  their  thrill 
When  the  shadows  have  turned,  and  the  evening  grows 

still! 

The  text  of  our  lives  may  get  wiser  with  age, 
But  the  print  was  so  fair  on  its  twentieth  page ! 

Look  off  from  your  goblet  and  up  from  your  plate, 
Come,  take  the  last  journal  and  glance  at  its  date,  — 
Then  think  what  we  fellows  should  say  and  should  do, 
If  the  6  were  a  9,-  and  the  5  were  a  2. 

Ah  no  !     For  the  shapes  that  would  meet  with  us  here 
From  the  far  land  of  shadows  are  ever  too  dear ! 
Though  youth  flung  around  us  its  pride  and  its  charms, 
We  should  see  but  the  comrades  we  clasped  in  our  arms. 

A  health  to  our  future,  —  a  sigh  for  our  past ! 
We  love,  we  remember,  we  hope  to  the  last ; 
And  for  all  the  base  lies  that  the  almanacs  hold, 
While  we  Ve  youth  in  our  hearts,  we  can  never  grow 
old. 


FOB  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BUMS  CLUB. 

1856. 

THE  mountains  glitter  in  the  snow 

A  thousand  leagues  asunder ; 
Yet  here,  amid  the  banquet's  glow, 

I  hear  their  voice  of  thunder ; 
Each  giant's  ice-bound  goblet  clinks ; 

A  flowing  stream  is  summoned ; 
Wachusett  to  Ben  Nevis  drinks  ; 

Monadnock  to  Ben  Lomond  ! 

Though  years  have  clipped  the  eagle's  plume 

That  crowned  the  chieftain's  bonnet, 
The  sun  still  sees  the  heather  bloom, 

The  silver  mists  lie  on  it ; 
With  tartan  kilt  and  philibeg, 

What  stride  was  ever  bolder 
Than  his  who  showed  the  naked  leg 

Beneath  the  plaided  shoulder  ? 


134  FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BURNS  CLUB. 

The  echoes  sleep  on  Cheviot's  hills, 

That  heard  the  bugles  blowing 
When  down  their  sides  the  crimson  rills 

With  mingled  blood  were  flowing  ; 
The  hunts  where  gallant  hearts  were  game, 

The  slashing  on  the  border, 
The  raid  that  swooped  with  sword  and  flame, 

Give  place  to  "  law  and  order." 

Not  while  the  rocking  steeples  reel 

With  midnight  tocsins  ringing, 
Not  while  the  crashing  war-notes  peal, 

God  sets  his  poets  singing ; 
The  bird  is  silent  in  the  night, 

Or  shrieks  a  cry  of  warning 
While  fluttering  round  the  beacon-light,  — 

But  hear  him  greet  the  morning ! 

The  lark  of  Scotia's  morning  sky ! 

Whose  voice  may  sing  his  praises  ? 
With  Heaven's  own  sunlight  in  his  eye, 

He  walked  among  the  daisies, 
Till  through  the  cloud  of  fortune's  wrong 

He  soared  to  fields  of  glory ; 
But  left  his  land  her  sweetest  song 

And  earth  her  saddest  story. 


FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BURNS  CLUB.   135 

'T  is  not  the  forts  the  builder  piles 

That  chain  the  earth  together ; 
The  wedded  crowns,  the  sister  isles, 

"Would  laugh  at  such  a  tether  ; 
The  kindling  thought,  the  throbbing  words, 

That  set  the  pulses  beating, 
Are  stronger  than  the  myriad  swords 

Of  mighty  armies  meeting. 

Thus  while  within  the  banquet  glows, 

Without,  the  wild  winds  whistle, 
We  drink  a  triple  health,  —  the  Rose, 

The  Shamrock,  and  the  Thistle ! 
Their  blended  hues  shall  never  fade 

Till  War  has  hushed  his  cannon,  — 
Close-twined  as  ocean-currents  braid 

The  Thames,  the  Clyde,  the  Shannon ! 


FOE  THE  BURNS  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION, 

JANUARY  25, 1859. 

His  birthday.  —  Nay,  we  need  not  speak 
The  name  each  heart  is  beating,  — 

Each  glistening  eye  and  flushing  cheek 
In  light  and  flame  repeating ! 

We  come  in  one  tumultuous  tide,  — 

One  surge  of  wild  emotion,  — 
As  crowding  through  the  Frith  of  Clyde 

Rolls  in  the  Western  Ocean  ; 

As  when  yon  cloudless,  quartered  moon 

Hangs  o'er  each  storied  river, 
The  swelling  breasts  of  Ayr  and  Doon 

With  sea-green  wavelets  quiver. 


FOR  THE  BURNS  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION.  137 

The  century  shrivels  like  a  scroll,  — 

The  past  becomes  the  present,  — 
And  face  to  face,  and  soul  to  soul, 

We  greet  the  monarch-peasant. 

While  Shenstone  strained  in  feeble  flights 

With  Corydon  and  Phillis,  — 
While  Wolfe  was  climbing  Abraham's  heights 

To  snatch  the  Bourbon  lilies,  — 

Who  heard  the  wailing  infant's  cry, 

The  babe  beneath  the  shieling, 
Whose  song  to-night  in  every  sky 

Will  shake  earth's  starry  ceiling,  — 

Whose  passion-breathing  voice  ascends 

And  floats  like  incense  o'er  us, 
Whose  ringing  lay  of  friendship  blends 

With  labor's  anvil  chorus  ? 

We  love  him,  not  for  sweetest  song, 

Though  never  tone  so  tender ; 
We  love  him,  even  in  his  wrong,  — 

His  wasteful  self-surrender. 


138  FOR  THE  BURNS  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION. 

We  praise  him,  not  for  gifts  divine,  — 

His  Muse  was  born  of  woman,  — 
His  manhood  breathes  in  every  line,  — 

Was  ever  heart  more  human  ? 

We  love  him,  praise  him,  just  for  this  : 

In  every  form  and  feature, 
Through  wealth  and  want,  through  woe  and  bliss, 

He  saw  his  fellow-creature ! 

No  soul  could  sink  beneath  his  love,  — 

Not  even  angel  blasted ; 
No  mortal  power  could  soar  above 

The  pride  that  all  outlasted  ! 

Ay !  Heaven  had  set  one  living  man 

Beyond  the  pedant's  tether,  — 
His  virtues,  frailties,  HE  may  scan, 

Who  weighs  them  all  together  ! 

I  fling  my  pebble  on  the  cairn 

Of  him,  though  dead,  undying; 
Sweet  Nature's  nursling,  bonniest  bairn 

Beneath  her  daisies  lying. 


FOR  THE  BURNS  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION.  139 

The  waning  suns,  the  wasting  globe, 
Shall  spare  the  minstrel's  story,  — 

The  centuries  weave  his  purple  robe, 
The  mountain-mist  of  glory ! 


BIETHDAY  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTEE, 

JANUARY  18,  1856. 

WHEN  life  hath  run  its  largest  round 
Of  toil  and  triumph,  joy  and  woe, 

How  brief  a  storied  page  is  found 
To  compass  all  its  outward  show ! 

The  world-tried  sailor  tires  and  droops  ; 

His  flag  is  rent,  his  keel  forgot ; 
His  farthest  vovages  seem  but  loops 

That  float  from  life's  entangled  knot. 

But  when  within  the  narrow  w^pace 

Some  larger  soul  hath  lived  and  wrought, 

Whose  sight  was  open  to  embrace 

The  boundless  realms  of  deed  and  thought, 


BIRTHDAY  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER.  141 

When,  stricken  by  the  freezing  blast, 

A  nation's  living  pillars  fall, 
How  rich  the  storied  page,  how  vast, 

A  word,  a  whisper  can  recall ! 

No  medal  lifts  its  fretted  face, 

Nor  speaking  marble  cheats  your  eye, 

Yet,  while  these  pictured  lines  I  trace, 
A  living  image  passes  by : 

A  roof  beneath  the  mountain  pines  ; 

The  cloisters  of  a  hill-girt  plain  ; 
The  front  of  life's  embattled  lines  ; 

A  mound  beside  the  heaving  main. 

These  are  the  scenes  :  a  boy  appears  ; 

Set  life's  round  dial  in  the  sun, 
Count  the  swift  arc  of  seventy  years, 

His  frame  is  dust ;  his  task  is  done. 

Yet  pause  upon  the  noontide  hour, 

Ere  the  declining  sun  has  laid 
His  bleaching  rays  on  manhood's  power, 

And  look  upon  the  mighty  shade. 


142  BIRTHDAY  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

No  gloom  that  stately  shape  can  hide, 
No  change  uncrown  its  brow ;  behold  ! 

Dark,  calm,  large-fronted,  lightning-eyed, 
Earth  has  no  double  from  its  mould ! 

Ere  from  the  fields  by  valor  won 
The  battle-smoke  had  rolled  away, 

And  bared  the  blood-red  setting  sun, 
His  eyes  were  opened  on  the  day. 

His  land  was  but  a  shelving  strip 

Black  with  the  strife  that  made  it  free ; 

He  lived  to  see  its  banners  dip 
Their  fringes  in  the  Western  sea. 

The  boundless  prairies  learned  his  name, 
His  words  the  mountain  echoes  knew, 

The  Northern  breezes  swept  his  fame 
From  icy  lake  to  warm  bayou. 

In  toil  he  lived  ;  in  peace  he  died ; 

When  life's  full  cycle  was  complete, 
Put  off  his  robes  of  power  and  pride, 

And  laid  them  at  his  Master's  feet. 


BIRTHDAY   OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER.  143 

His  rest  is  by  the  storm-swept  waves 
Whom  life's  wild  tempests  roughly  tried, 

Whose  heart  was  like  the  streaming  caves 
Of  ocean,  throbbing  at  his  side. 

Death's  cold  white  hand  is  like  the  snow 

Laid  softly  on  the  furrowed  hill, 
It  hides  the  broken  seams  below, 

And  leaves  the  summit  brighter  still. 

In  vain  the  envious  tongue  upbraids ; 

His  name  a  nation's  heart  shall  keep 
Till  morning's  latest  sunlight  fades 

On  the  blue  tablet  of  the  deep ! 


X 

MEETING  OF  THE  ALUMNI  OF  IIAEVARD  COLLEGE, 


1857. 


I  THANK  you,  MR.  PRESIDENT,  you  've  kindly  broke 

the  ice  ; 
Virtue  should  always  be  the  first,  —  I  'm  only  SECOND 

VICE  — 
(A  vice  is  something  with  a  screw  that 's  made  to  hold 

its  jaw 
Till  some  old  file  has  played  away   upon  an  ancient 

saw.) 

Sweet  brothers  by   the   Mother's   side,  the   babes   of 

days  gone  by, 
All  nurslings  of  her  Juno  breasts  whose  milk  is  never 

dry, 


MEETING  OF  THE  ALUMNI  OF  HARVARD.       145 

"We  come  again,  like  half-grown  boys,  and  gather  at  her 

beck 
About  her  knees,  and  on  her  lap,  and  clinging  round 

her  neck. 

We  find  her  at  her  stately  door,  and  in  her  ancient  chair, 
Dressed  in  the  robes  of  red  and  green  she  always  loved 

to  wear. 
Her  eye  has  all  its  radiant  youth,  her  cheek  its  morning 

flame; 
We  drop  our  roses  as  we  go,  hers  flourish  still  the  same. 

We  have  been  playing  many  an  hour,  and  far  away 

we've  strayed, 
Some  laughing  in  the  cheerful  sun,  some  lingering  in 

the  shade ; 
And  some  have  tired,  and  laid  them  down  where  darker 

shadows  fall,  — 
Dear  as  her  loving  voice  may  be,  they  cannot  hear  its 

call. 

What  miles  we  've  travelled  since  we  shook  the  dew- 
drops  from  our  shoes 

We  gathered  on  this  classic  green,  so  famed  for  heavy 
dues  ! 

7  j 


146      MEETING  OF  THE  ALUMXI  OF  HABVABD. 

How  many  boys  hare  joined  the   game,  how  many 

slipped  away, 
Since  we've  been  running  up  and  down,  and  having 

oat  oar  play ! 

One  boy  at  work  with  book  and  brief,  and  one  with 

gown  and  band, 
One  sailing  vessels  on  the  pool,  one  digging  in  the  sand, 
One  flying  paper  kites  on  change,  one  planting  little 

pilk,- 
The  seeds  of  certain  annual  flowers  well  known  as  little 

bills. 

"What  maidens  met  us  on  our  way,  and  clasped  us 

in  hand ! 
What  cherubs,  —  not  the  legless   kind,  that  fly, 

never  stand ! 
How  many  a  youthful  head  we  Ve  seen  put  on  its 

crown ! 
What  sudden  changes  back  again  to  youth's  emj 

brown ! 

But  fairer  sights  have  met  our  eyes,  and  broader 

have  shone, 
Since  others  lit  their  midnight  lamps  where  once  we 

trimmed  our  own; 


MEETING   OF   THE  ALVMXI   OF   HARVARD.       147 

A  thousand  trains  that  flap  the  sky  with  flags  of  rush 
ing  fire, 

And,  throbbing  in  the  Thunderer's  hand,  Thought's 
million-chorded  lyre. 

We  've  seen  the  sparks  of  Empire  fly  beyond  the  moun 
tain  bars, 

Till,  glittering  o'er  the  "Western  wave,  they  joined  the 
setting  stars  ; 

And  ocean  trodden  into  paths  that  trampling  giants 
ford, 

To  find  the  planet's  vertebrae  and  sink  its  spinal  cord. 

We  Ve  tried  reform,  —  and  chloroform,  —  and  both 
have  turned  our  brain ; 

When  France  called  up  the  photograph,  we  roused  the 
foe  to  pain ; 

Just  so  those  earlier  sages  shared  the  chaplet  of  re 
nown,  — 

Hers  sent  a  bladder  to  the  clouds,  ours  brought  their 
lightning  down. 

We  've  seen  the  little   tricks  of  life,  its  varnish  and 

veneer, 
1:>  <ucco-fronts  of  character  flake  off  and  disappear; 


148       MEETING  OF  THE  ALUMNI  OF  HARVARD. 

We  Ve  learned  that  oft  the  brownest  hands  will  heap 
the  biggest  pile, 

And  met  with  many  a  "  perfect  brick  "  beneath  a  rim 
less  « tile." 

What  dreams  we  've  had  of  deathless  name,  as  scholars, 
statesmen,  bards, 

While  Fame,  the  lady  with  the  trump,  held  up  her  pic 
ture  cards  ! 

Till,  having  nearly  played  our  game,  she  gayly  whis 
pered,  «  Ah ! 

I  said  you  should  be  something  grand,  —  you  '11  soon 
be  grandpapa." 

Well,  well,  the  old  have  had  their  day,  the  young  must 

take  their  turn ; 
There 's  something  always  to  forget,  and  something  still 

to  learn  ; 
But  how  to  tell  what 's  old  or  young,  the  tap-root  from 

the  sprigs, 
Since  Florida  revealed  her  fount  to  Ponce  de  Leon 

Twiggs  ? 

The  wisest  was  a  Freshman  once,  just  freed  from  bar 

and  bolt, 
As  noisy  as  a  kettle-drum,  as  leggy  as  a  colt ; 


MEETING  OF  THE  ALUMNI  OF  HARVAKD.       149 

Don't  be  too  savage  with  the  boys,  —  the  Primer  does 

not  say 
The  kitten  ought  to  go  to  church  because  "  the  cat  doth 

prey." 

The  law  of  merit  and  of  age  is  not  the  rule  of  three  ; 
Non  constat  that  A.  M.  must  prove  as  busy  as  A.  B. 
"When  Wise  the  father  tracked  the  son,  ballooning 

through  the  skies, 
He  taught  a  lesson  to  the  old,  —  go  thou  and  do  like 

Wise! 

Now  then,  old  boys,  and  reverend  youth,  of  high  or  low 

degree, 

Remember  how  we  only  get  one  annual  out  of  three, 
And  such  as  dare  to  simmer  down  three  dinners  into 

one 
Must  cut  their  salads  mighty  short,  and  pepper  well 

with  fun. 

I  Ve  passed  my  zenith  long  ago,  it 's  time  for  me  to  set ; 
A  dozen  planets  wait  to  shine,  and  I  am  lingering  yet, 
As  sometimes  in  the  blaze  of  day  a  milk-and-watery 

moon 
Stains  with  its  dim  and  fading  ray  the  lustrous  blue  of 

noon. 


150        MEETING  OF  THE  ALUMNI  OF  HARVARD. 

Farewell!  yet  let  one  echo  rise  to  shake  our  ancient 

hall; 
God  save  the  Queen,  —  whose  throne  is   here,  —  the 

Mother  of  us  all ! 
Till   dawns   the   great   Commencement-day   on   every 

shore  and  sea, 
And  "  Expectantur "  all  mankind,  to  take  their  last 

Degree ! 


THE   PASTING  SONG. 

FESTIVAL    OF    THE    ALUMNI,   1857. 

THE  noon  of  summer  sheds  its  ray 

On  Harvard's  holy  ground  ; 
The  Matron  calls,  the  sons  obey, 

And  gather  smiling  round. 
CHORUS.  —  Then  old  and  young  together  stand, 

The  sunshine  and  the  snow, 
As  heart  to  heart  and  hand  in  hand, 
We  sing  before  we  go ! 

Her  hundred  opening  doors  have  swung ; 

Through  every  storied  hall 
The  pealing  echoes  loud  have  rung, 

"  Thrice  welcome  one  and  all ! " 
Then  old  and  young,  etc. 


152  THE  PARTING  SONG. 

We  floated  through  her  peaceful  bay, 
To  sail  life's  stormy  seas  ; 

But  left  our  anchor  where  it  lay 
Beneath  her  green  old  trees. 
Then  old  and  young,  etc. 

As  now  we  lift  its  lengthening  chain, 

That  held  us  fast  of  old, 
The  rusted  rings  grow  bright  again,  — 

Their  iron  turns  to  gold. 

Then  old  and  young,  etc. 

Though  scattered  ere  the  setting  sun, 
As  leaves  when  wild  winds  blow, 

Our  home  is  here,  our  hearts  are  one, 
Till  Charles  forgets  to  flow. 
Then  old  and  young,  etc. 


BOSTON  COMMON. -THREE    PICTURES, 

(FOE  THE  FAIR  IN  AID   OF  THE  FUND  TO  PROCURE  BALL'S  STATUS 
OF  WASHINGTON.) 

1630. 

ALL  overgrown  with  bush  and  fern, 

And  straggling  clumps  of  tangled  trees, 
With  trunks  that  lean  and  boughs  that  turn, 

Bent  eastward  by  the  mastering  breeze,  — 
With  spongy  bogs  that  drip  and  fill 

A  yellow  pond  with  muddy  rain, 
Beneath  the  shaggy  southern  hill 

Lies  wet  and  low  the  Shawmut  plain. 
And  hark  !  the  trodden  branches  crack  ; 

A  crow  flaps  off  with  startled  scream  ; 
A  straying  woodchuck  canters  back  ; 

A  bittern  rises  from  the  stream ; 
Leaps  from  his  lair  a  frightened  deer  ; 

An  otter  plunges  in  the  pool ;  — 
Here  comes  old  Shawmut's  pioneer, 

The  parson  on  his  brindled  bull ! 
7* 


154  BOSTON  COMMON. 

1774. 

THE  streets  are  thronged  with  trampling  feet, 

The  northern  hill  is  ridged  with  graves, 
But  night  and  morn  the  drum  is  beat 

To  frighten  down  the  "  rebel  knaves." 
The  stones  of  King  Street  still  are  red, 

And  yet  the  bloody  red-coats  come  : 
I  hear  their  pacing  sentry's  tread, 

The  click  of  steel,  the  tap  of  drum, 
And  over  all  the  open  green, 

Where  grazed  of  late  the  harmless  kine, 
The  cannon's  deepening  ruts  are  seen, 

The  war-horse  stamps,  the  bayonets  shine. 
The  clouds  are  dark  with  crimson  rain 

Above  the  murderous  hirelings'  den, 
And  soon  their  whistling  showers  shall  stain 

The  pipe-clayed  belts  of  Gage's  men. 


186 

AROUND  the  green,  in  morning  light, 
The  spired  and  palaced  summits  blaze, 

And,  sunlike,  from  her  Beacon-height 

The  dome-crowned  city  spreads  her  rays  ; 


BOSTON  COMMON.  155 

They  span  the  waves,  they  belt  the  plains, 

They  skirt  the  roads  with  bands  of  white, 
Till  with  a  flash  of  gilded  panes 

Yon  farthest  hill-side  bounds  the  sight. 
Peace,  Freedom,  Wealth  !  no  fairer  view, 

Though  with  the  wild-bird's  restless  wings 
We  sailed  beneath  the  noontide's  blue 

Or  chased  the  moonlight's  endless  rings  ! 
Here,  fitly  raised  by  grateful  hands 

His  holiest  memory  to  recall, 
The  Hero's,  Patriot's  image  stands  ; 

He  led  our  sires  who  won  them  all ! 

November  14,  1859. 


LATTEE-DAY   WARNINGS, 


WHEN  legislators  keep  the  law, 

When  banks  dispense  with  bolts  and  locks, 
When  berries  —  whortle,  rasp,  and  straw  — 

Grow  bigger  downwards  through  the  box, 

When  he  that  selleth  house  or  land 
Shows  leak  in  roof  or  flaw  in  right,  — 

When  haberdashers  choose  the  stand 

Whose  window  hath  the  broadest  light,  — 

When  preachers  tell  us  all  they  think, 
And  party  leaders  all  they  mean,  — 

When  what  we  pay  for,  that  we  drink, 
From  real  grape  and  coffee-bean,  — 


LATTER-DAY   WARNINGS.  157 

When  lawyers  take  what  they  would  give, 
And  doctors  give  what  they  would  take,  — 

When  city  fathers  eat  to  live, 

Save  when  they  fast  for  conscience'  sake,  — 

When  one  that  hath  a  horse  on  sale 

Shall  bring  his  merit  to  the  proof, 
Without  a  lie  for  every  nail 

That  holds  the  iron  on  the  hoof,  — 

When  in  the  usual  place  for  rips 

Our  gloves  are  stitched  with  special  care, 

And  guarded  well  the  whalebone  tips 
Where  first  umbrellas  need  repair,  — 

When  Cuba's  weeds  have  quite  forgot 

The  power  of  suction  to  resist, 
And  claret-bottles  harbor  not 

Such  dimples  as  would  hold  your  fist,  — 

When  publishers  no  longer  steal, 

And  pay  for  what  they  stole  before,  — 

When  the  first  locomotive's  wheel 

Rolls  through  the  Iloosac  tunnel's  bore ;  — 


158  LATTER-DAY  WARNINGS. 

Till  then  let  Gumming  blaze  away, 
And  Miller's  saints  blow  up  the  globe  ; 

But  when  you  see  that  blessed  day, 
Then  order  your  ascension  robe  ! 


PEOLOGUE, 

A  PROLOGUE  ?     Well,  of  course  the  ladies  know  ;  — 
I  have  my  doubts.     No  matter,  —  here  we  go  ! 
What  is  a  Prologue  ?     Let  our  Tutor  teach  : 
Pro  means  beforehand  ;  logos  stands  for  speech. 
T  is  like  the  harper's  prelude  on  the  strings, 
The  prima  donna's  courtesy  ere  she  sings :  — 
Prologues  in  metre  are  to  other  pros 
As  worsted  stockings  are  to  engine-hose. 

"  The  world 's  a  stage,"  —  as  Shakespeare  said,  one  day ; 

The  stage  a  world  —  was  what  he  meant  to  say. 

The  outside  world 's  a  blunder,  that  is  clear  ; 

The  real  world  that  Nature  meant  is  here. 

Here  every  foundling  finds  its  lost  mamma  ; 

Each  rogue,  repentant,  melts  his  stern  papa ; 

Misers  relent,  the  spendthrift's  debts  are  paid, 


160  PROLOGUE. 

The  cheats  are  taken  in  the  traps  they  laid ; 

One  after  one  the  troubles  all  are  past 

Till  the  fifth  act  comes  right  side  up  at  last, 

When  the  young  couple,  old  folks,  rogues,  and  all, 

Join  hands,  so  happy  at  the  curtain's  fall. 

Here  suffering  virtue  ever  finds  relief, 

And  black-browed  ruffians  always  come  to  grief. 

When  the  lorn  damsel,  with  a  frantic  screech, 

And  cheeks  as  hueless  as  a  brandy-peach, 

Cries,  "  Help,  kyind  Heaven ! "  and  drops    upon  her 

knees 

On  the  green  —  baize,  —  beneath  the  (canvas)  trees,  — 
See  to  her  side  avenging  Valor  fly  :  — 
"  Ha !  Villain  !  Draw !   Now,  Terraitorr,  yield  or  die  !  " 
When  the  poor  hero  flounders  in  despair, 
Some  dear  lost  uncle  turns  up  millionnaire, 
Clasps  the  young  scapegrace  with  paternal  joy, 
Sobs  on  his  neck,  «  My  boy  !  MY  BOY  ! !  MY  BOY  III" 

Ours,  then,  sweet  friends,  the  real  world  to-night. 
Of  love  that  conquers  in  disaster's  spite. 
Ladies  attend !     While  woful  cares  and  doubt 
Wrong  the  soft  passion  in  the  world  without, 
Though  fortune  scowl,  though  prudence  interfere, 
One  thing  is  certain  :  Love  will  triumph  here  ! 


PKOLOGUE.  161 

Lords  of  creation,  whom  your  ladies  rule,  — 

The  world's  great  masters,  when  you  're  out  of  school,  — 

Learn  the  brief  moral  of  our  evening's  play  : 

Man  has  his  will,  —  but  woman  has  her  way  ! 

While  man's  dull  spirit  toils  in  smoke  and  fire, 

Woman's  swift  instinct  threads  the  electric  wire,  — 

The  magic  bracelet  stretched  beneath  the  waves 

Beats  the  black  giant  with  his  score  of  slaves. 

All  earthly  powers  confess  your  sovereign  art 

But  that  one  rebel,  —  woman's  wilful  heart. 

All  foes  you  master ;  but  a  woman's  wit 

Lets  daylight  through  you  ere  you  know  you  're  hit. 

So,  just  to  picture  what  her  art  can  do, 

Hear  an  old  story,  made  as  good  as  new. 

Rudolph,  professor  of  the  headsman's  trade, 
Alike  was  famous  for  his  arm  and  blade. 
One  day  a  prisoner  Justice  had  to  kill 
Knelt  at  the  block  to  test  the  artist's  skill. 
Bare-armed,  swart-visaged,  gaunt,  and  shaggy-browed, 
Rudolph  the  headsman  rose  above  the  crowd. 
His  falchion  lightened  with  a  sudden  gleam, 
As  the  pike's  armor  flashes  in  the  stream. 
He  sheathed  his  blade  ;  he  turned  as  if  to  go ; 
The  victim  knelt,  still  waiting  for  the  blow. 

K 


162  PROLOGUE. 

"  Why  strikest  not  ?     Perform  thy  murderous  act," 
The  prisoner  said.     (His  voice  was  slightly  cracked.) 
"  Friend,  I  have  struck,"  the  artist  straight  replied ; 
"  Wait  but  one  moment,  and  yourself  decide." 
He  held  his  snuff-box,  —  "  Now  then,  if  you  please  !  " 
The  prisoner  sniffed,  and,  with  a  crashing  sneeze, 
Off  his  head  tumbled,  —  bowled  along  the  floor,  — 
Bounced  down  the  steps  ;  —  the  prisoner  said  no  more ! 

Woman  !  thy  falchion  is  a  glittering  eye ; 
If  death  lurk  in  it,  O,  how  sweet  to  die  ! 
Thou  takest  hearts  as  Rudolph  took  the  head  ; 
We  die  with  love,  and  never  dream  we  're  dead  ! 


THE    OLD    MAN  OF    THE    SEA, 

A  NIGHTMARE  DREAM  BY  DAYLIGHT. 

Do  you  know  the  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  of  the  Sea  ? 

Have  you  met  with  that  dreadful  old  man  ? 
If  you  have  n't  been  caught,  you  will  be,  you  will  be ; 

For  catch  you  he  must  and  he  can. 

He  does  n't  hold  on  by  your  throat,  by  your  throat, 

As  of  old  in  the  terrible  tale  ; 
But  he  grapples  you  tight  by  the  coat,  by  the  coat, 

Till  its  buttons  and  button-holes  fail. 

There 's  the  charm  of  a  snake  in  his  eye,  in  his  eye, 

And  a  polypus-grip  in  his  hands  ; 
Tou  cannot  go  back,  nor  get  by,  nor  get  by, 

If  you  look  at  the  spot  where  he  stands. 

O,  you  're  grabbed !    See  his  claw  on  your  sleeve,  on 

your  sleeve  ! 
It  is  Sinbad's  Old  Man  of  the  Sea ! 


1G4  THE  OLD  MAN  OF  THE  SEA. 

You  're  a  Christian,  no  doubt  you  believe,  you  believe  : 
You  're  a  martyr,  whatever  you  be ! 

—  Is  the  breakfast-hour  past  ?     They  must  wait,  they 

must  wait, 

While  the  coffee  boils  sullenly  down, 
While   the   Johnny-cake  burns  on  the  grate,  on  the    i 

grate, 
And  the  toast  is  done  frightfully  brown. 

—  Yes,  your  dinner  will  keep  ;  let  it  cool,  let  it  cool, 
And  Madam  may  worry  and  fret, 

And  children  half-starved  go  to  school,  go  to  school ; 
He  can't  think  of  sparing  you  yet. 

—  Hark !  the  bell  for  the  train  !    "  Come  along !  Come 

along ! 

For  there  is  n't  a  second  to  lose." 
"  ALL  ABOARD  !  "    (He  holds  on.)    "  Fsht !  ding-dong  ! 

Fsht !  ding-dong  !  "  — 
You  can  follow  on  foot,  if  you  choose. 

—  There's  a  maid  with  a  cheek  like  a  peach,  like  a  peach, 
That  is  waiting  for  you  in  the  church ;  — 

But  he  clings  to  your  side  like  a  leech,  like  a  leech, 
And  you  leave  your  lost  bride  in  the  lurch. 


THE   OLD   MAN  OF   THE   SEA.  165 


— There 's  a  babe  in  a  fit,  —  hurry  quick !  hurry  quick ! 

To  the  doctor's  as  fast  as  you  can ! 
The  baby  is  off,  while  you  stick,  while  you  stick, 

In  the  grip  of  the  dreadful  Old  Man  ! 

—  I  have  looked  on  the  face  of  the  Bore,  of  the  Bore  ; 

The  voice  of  the  Simple  I  know  ; 
I  have  welcomed  the  Flat  at  my  door,  at  my  door  ; 

I  have  sat  by  the  side  of  the  Slow  ; 

I  have  walked  like  a  lamb  by  the  friend,  by  the  friend, 

That  stuck  to  my  skirts  like  a  burr  ; 
I  have  borne  the  stale  talk  without  end,  without  end, 

Of  the  sitter  whom  nothing  could  stir : 

But  my  hamstrings  grow  loose,  and  I  shake,  and  I  shake, 

At  the  sight  of  the  dreadful  Old  Man  ; 
Yea,  I  quiver  and  quake,  and  I  take,  and  I  take, 

To  my  legs  with  what  vigor  I  can  ! 

O  the  dreadful  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  of  the  Sea  ! 

He  's  come  back  like  the  Wandering  Jew ! 
He  has  had  his  cold  claw  upon  me,  upon  me,  — 

And  be  sure  that  he  '11  have  it  on  you  ! 


ODE    FOR   A   SOCIAL   MEETING. 

WITH    SLIGHT    ALTERATIONS    BY  A   TEETOTALER. 


COME  !  fill  a  fresh  bumper,  —  for  why  should  we  go 

logwood 

While  the  ncetar  still  reddens  our  cups  as  they  flow  ? 

decoction 

Pour  out  the  rich  juiooa  still  bright  with  the  sun, 

dye-stuff 

Till  o'er  the  brimmed  crystal  the  rubioo  shall  run. 


half-ripened  apples 

The  purple  globed  clusters  their  life-dews  have  bled  ; 

taste  sugar  of  lead 

How  sweet  is  the  breath  of  the  •fragrance  they  shod  ! 

rank  poisons  wines  .' !  ! 

For  summer's  last  roaoa  lie  hid  in  the  wino& 

stable-boys  smoking  long-nines 

That  were  garnered  by  maidens  who  laughed  thro-tho  vinos; 


scowl  howl  scoff  sneer 

Then  a  smile,  and  a  glass,  and  a  4oa*£,  and  a  clioor, 

strychnine  and  whiskey,  and  ratsbane  and  beer 

For  ^11  tho  good  wine,  and  we  'VQ  somo  of  it  here  I 
In  cellar,  in  pantry,  in  attic,  in  hall, 

Down,  down  with  the  tyrant  that  masters  us  all ! 

Long  live  the  gay  servant  that  laughs  for  us  all ! 


THE    DEACON'S    MASTERPIECE: 

OR    THE    WONDERFUL    "ONE-HOSS    SHAY.' 

A   LOGICAL  STORY. 

HAVE  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
That  was  built  in  such  a  logical  way 
It  ran  a  hundred  years  to  a  day, 

And  then,  of  a  sudden,  it ah,  but  stay, 

I  '11  tell  you  what  happened  without  delay, 
Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 
Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits,  — 
Have  jjpu  ever  heard  of  that,  I  say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five. 
Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive,  — 
Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive. 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 
And  Braddock's  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a  scalp  to  its  crown. 


1G8  THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE. 

It  was  on  the  terrible  Earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss  shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I  tell  you  what, 

There  is  always  somewhere  a  weakest  spot,  — 

In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 

In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 

In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace,  —  lurking  still, 

Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will,  — 

Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without,  — 

And  that 's  the  reason,  beyond  a  doubt, 

A  chaise  breaks  down,  but  does  n't  wear  out. 

But  the  Deacon  swore,  (as  Deacons  do, 
With  an  « I  dew  vum,"  or  an  «  I  tell  yeou"} 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
'n'  the  keounty  V  all  the  kentry  raoun' ; 
It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn'  break  daown : 
—  "  Fur,"  said  the  Deacon,  "  't  's  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes*  place  mus'  stan'  the  strain ; 
V  the  way  t'  fix  it,  uz  I  maintain, 

Is  only  jest 
T'  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest." 

So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 


THE   DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE.  1G9 

That  could  n't  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke,  — 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills ; 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills  ; 

The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest  trees ; 

The  panels  of  white-wood,  that  cuts  like  cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these ; 

The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  "  Settler's  ellum,"  — 

Last  of  its  timber,  —  they  could  n't  sell  'em, 

Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips, 

Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips  ; 

Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue  ; 

Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide  ; 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 

Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 

That  w^s  the  way  he  "  put  her  through."  — 

"  There  ! "  said  the  Deacon,  «  naow  she  '11  dew  !  " 

Do  !  I  tell  you,  I  rather  guess 
She  was  a  wonder,  and  nothing  less ! 
Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 
Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 
Children  and  grandchildren  —  where  were  they  ? 
8 


170  THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE. 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss  shay 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day  ! 

EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  ;  —  it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon's  masterpiece  strong  and  sound; 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten  ;  — 
"  Hahnsum  kerridge  "  they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came  ;  — 
Running  as  usual ;  much  the  same. 
Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 
And  then  come  fifty,  and  FIFTY-FIVE. 

Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there  's  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth, 

So  far  as  I  know,  but  a  tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a  moral  that  runs  at  large  ; 

Take  it.  —  You  're  welcome.  —  No  extra  charge.) 

FIRST  OF  NOVEMBER,  —  the  Earthquake-day.  — 

There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss  shay, 

A  general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 

But  nothing  local  as  one  may  say. 

There  could  n't  be,  —  for  the  Deacon's  art 


THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE.  171 

Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  was  n't  a  chance  for  one  to  start. 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore. 
And  yet,  as  a  whole,  it  is  past  a  doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out ! 

First  of  November,  'Fifty-five  ! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a  drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way ! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay, 

Drawn  by  a  rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 

"  Huddup  !  "  said  the  parson.  —  Off  went  they. 

The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday's  text,  — 
Had  got  tofft/Jy,  and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the  —  Moses  —  was  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 
Close  by  the  meet'n'-house  on  the  hill. 
—  First  a  shiver,  and  then  a  thrill, 
Then  something  decidedly  like  a  spill,  — 


172  THE  DEACON'S  MASTERPIECE. 

And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a  rock, 

At  half  past  nine  by  the  meet'n'-house  clock,  — 

Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock  ! 

—  What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 

When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 

The  poor  old  chaise  in  a  heap  or  mound, 

As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground ! 

You  see,  of  course,  if  you  're  not  a  dunce, 

How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,  — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first,  — 

Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst. 

End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss  shay. 
Logic  is  logic.     That 's  all  I  say. 


ESTIVATION, 

AN  UNPUBLISHED  POEM,  BY  MY  LATE  LATIN  TUTOR. 

IN  candent  ire  the  solar  splendor  flames  ; 
The  foles,  languescent,  pend  from  arid  rauies ; 
His  humid  front  the  cive,  anheling,  wipes, 
And  dreams  of  erring  on  ventiferous  ripes. 

How  dulce  to  vive  occult  to  mortal  eyes, 
Dorm  on  the  herb  with  none  to  supervise, 
Carp  the  suave  berries  from  the  crescent  vine, 
And  bibe  the  flow  from  longicaudate  kine ! 

To  me,  alas  !  no  verdurous  visions  come, 
Save  yon  exiguous  pool's  conferva-scum,  — 
No  concave  vast  repeats  the  tender  hue 
That  laves  my  milk-jug  with  celestial  blue  ! 

Me  wretched  !    Let  me  curr  to  quercine  shades ! 
Effund  your  albid  hausts,  lactiferous  maids  ! 
O,  might  I  vole  to  some  umbrageous  clump,  — 
Depart,  —  be  off,  —  excede,  —  evade,  —  erump ! 


CONTENTMENT. 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below." 

LITTLE  I  ask ;  my  wants  are  few ; 

I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone, 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 
That  I  may  call  my  own ;  — 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me ; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten ;  — 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.     Amen ! 
I  always  thought  cold  victual  nice  ;  — 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land ;  — 
Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there,  — 


CONTENTMENT.  175 

Some  good  bank  stock,  —  some  note  of  hand, 

Or  trifling  railroad  share  ;  — 
I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 
A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honors  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 

And  titles  are  but  empty  names ; 
I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo,  — 
But  only  near  St.  James ; 
I  'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 
To  fill  our  Gubernator's  chair. 

Jewels  are  bawbles ;  't  is  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things  ;  — 
One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin,  — 

Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings,  — 
A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so, 
Will  do  for  me ;  —  I  laugh  at  show. 

My  dame  should  dress  in  cheap  attire ; 

(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear  ;)  — 
I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere,  — 
Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 
Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 


176  CONTENTMENT. 

I  would  not  have  the  horse  I  drive 

So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare  ; 
An  easy  gait  —  two,  forty-five  — 

Suits  me ;  I  do  not  care  ;  — 
Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt^ 
Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pictures,  I  should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four,  — 
I  love  so  much  their  style  and  tone,  — 

One  Turner,  and  no  more, 
(A  landscape,  —  foreground  golden  dirt,  — 
The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt.) 

Of  books  but  few,  —  some  fifty  score 

For  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear  ; 
The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor  ;  — 

Some  little  luxury  there 
Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam, 
And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 

Busts,  cameos,  gems,  —  such  things  as  these, 

Which  others  often  show  for  pride, 
I  value  for  their  power  to  please, 
And  selfish  churls  deride  ;  — 


CONTENTMENT.  177 

One  Stradivarius,  I  confess, 

Two  Meerschaums,  I  would  fain  possess. 

"Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learn, 
Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool ;  — 

Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn, 
But  all  must  be  of  buhl  ? 

Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share,  — 

I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 

Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch  ; 
If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 

I  shall  not  miss  them  much,  — 
Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 
Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content ! 


PAESON  TUKELL'S  LEGACY: 

OR,    THE    PRESIDENT'S    OLD    ARM-CHAIR, 

A  MATHEMATICAL  STORY. 

FACTS  respecting  an  old  arm-chair. 
At  Cambridge.     Is  kept  in  the  College  there. 
Seems  but  little  the  worse  for  wear. 
That 's  remarkable  when  I  say 
It  was  old  in  President  Holyoke's  day. 
(One  of  his  boys,  perhaps  you  know, 
Died,  at  one  hundred,  years  ago.) 
He  took  lodgings  for  rain  or  shine 
Under  green  bed-clothes  in  '69. 

Know  old  Cambridge  ?     Hope  you  do.  — 
Born  there  ?     Don't  say  so  !     I  was,  too. 
(Born  in  a  house  with  a  gambrel-roof,  — 
Standing  still,  if  you  must  have  proof.  — 


PARSON  TUEELL'S  LEGACY.  179 

"  Gambrel  ?  —  Gambrel  ?  "  —  Let  me  beg 
You  '11  look  at  a  horse's  hinder  leg,  — 
First  great  angle  above  the  hoof,  — 
That 's  the  gambrel ;  hence  gambrel-roof.) 
—  Nicest  place  that  ever  was  seen,  — 
Colleges  red  and  Common  green, 
Sidewalks  brownish  with  trees  between. 
Sweetest  spot  beneath  the  skies 
"When  the  canker-worms  don't  rise,  — 
When  the  dust,  that  sometimes  flies 
Into  your  mouth  and  ears  and  eyes, 
In  a  quiet  slumber  lies, 
Not  in  the  shape  of  unbaked  pies 
Such  as  barefoot  children  prize. 

A  kind  of  harbor  it  seems  to  be, 
Facing  the  flow  of  a  boundless  sea. 
Rows  of  gray  old  Tutors  stand 
Ranged  like  rocks  above  the  sand ; 
Rolling  beneath  them,  soft  and  green, 
Breaks  the  tide  of  bright  sixteen,  — 
One  Avave,  two  waves,  three  waves,  four, 
Sliding  up  the  sparkling  floor  : 
Then  it  ebbs  to  flow  no  more, 
Wandering  off  from  shore  to  shore 


180  PARSON  TURELL'S  LEGACY. 

With  its  freight  of  golden  ore  ! 

—  Pleasant  place  for  boys  to  play  ;  — 
Better  keep  your  girls  away  ; 
Hearts  get  rolled  as  pebbles  do 
Which  countless  fingering  waves  pursue, 
And  every  classic  beach  is  strown 

With  heart-shaped  pebbles  of  blood-red  stone. 

But  this  is  neither  here  nor  there  ;  — 
I  'm  talking  about  an  old  arm-chair. 
You've  heard,  no  doubt,  of  PARSON  TURELL? 
Over  at  Medford  he  used  to  dwell ; 
Married  one  of  the  Mathers'  folk  ; 
Got  with  his  wife  a  chair  of  oak,  — 
Funny  old  chair  with  seat  like  wedge, 
Sharp  behind  and  broad  front  edge,  — 
One  of  the  pddest  of  human  things, 
Turned  all  over  with  knobs  and  rings,  — 
But  heavy,  and  wide,  and  deep,  and  grand,  — 
Fit  for  the  worthies  of  the  land,  — 
Chief-Justice  Sewall  a  cause  to  try  in, 
Or  Cotton  Mather  to  sit  —  and  lie  —  in. 

—  Parson  Turell  bequeathed  the  same 
To  a  certain  student,  —  SMITH  by  name  ; 
These  were  the  terms,  as  we  are  told : 


PARSON  TURELL'S  LEGACY.  181 

"  Saide  Smith  saide  Chaire  to  have  and  holde ; 

When  he  doth  graduate,  then  to  passe 

To  ye  oldest  Youth  in  ye  Senior  Classe. 

On  Payment  of"  —  (naming  a  certain  sum)  — 

"  By  him  to  whom  ye  Chaire  shall  come  ; 

He  to  ye  oldest  Senior  next, 

And  soe  forever,"  —  (thus  runs  the  text,)  — 

"  But  one  Crown  lesse  then  he  gave  to  claime, 

That  being  his  Debte  for  use  of  same." 

Smith  transferred  it  to  one  of  the  BROWNS, 
And  took  his  money,  —  five  silver  crowns. 
Brown  delivered  it  up  to  MOORE, 
Who  paid,  it  is  plain,  not  five,  but  four. 
Moore  made  over  the  chair  to  LEE, 
Who  gave  him  crowns  of  silver  three. 
Zee  .conveyed  it  unto  DREW, 
And  now  the  payment,  of  course,  was  two. 
Drew  gave  up  the  chair  to  DUNN,  — 
All  he  got,  as  you  see,  was  one. 
Dunn  released  the  chair  to  HALL, 
And  got  by  the  bargain  no  crown  at  all. 
—  And  now  it  passed  to  a  second  BROWN, 
Who  took  it  and  likewise  claimed  a  crown. 
When  Brown  conveyed  it  unto  WARE, 


182  PARSON  TURELL'S  LEGACY. 

Having  had  one  crown,  to  make  it  fair, 
He  paid  him  two  crowns  to  take  the  chair  ; 
And  Ware,  being  honest,  (as  all  Wares  be,) 
He  paid  one  POTTER,  who  took  it,  three. 
Four  got  ROBINSON  ;  five  got  Dix  ; 
JOHNSON  primus  demanded  six  ; 
And  so  the  sum  kept  gathering  still 
Till  after  the  battle  of  Bunker's  Hill. 

—  When  paper  money  became  so  cheap, 
Folks  would  n't  count  k,  but  said  "  a  heap," 
A  certain  RICHARDS,  —  the  books  declare,  - 
(A.  M.  in  '90  ?     I  've  looked  with  care 
Through  the  Triennial,  —  name  not  there.) 
This  person,  Richards,  was  offered  then 
Eight  score  pounds,  but  would  have  ten  ; 
Nine,  I  think,  was  the  sum  he  took,  — 
Not  quite  certain,  —  but  see  the  book. 
—  By  and  by  the  wars  were  still, 
But  nothing  had  altered  the  Parson's  will. 
The  old  arm-chair  was  solid  yet, 
But  saddled  with  such  a  monstrous  debt ! 
Things  grew  quite  too  bad  to  bear, 
Paying  such  sums  to  get  rid  of  the  chair  ! 
But  dead  men's  fingers  hold  awful  tight, 
And  there  was  the  will  in  black  and  white, 


PARSON  TUEELL'S  LEGACY.  183 

Plain  enough  for  a  child  to  spell. 
"What  should  be  done  no  man  could  tell, 
For  the  chair  was  a  kind  of  nightmare  curse, 
And  eveiy  season  but  made  it  worse. 

As  a  last  resort,  to  clear  the  doubt, 
They  got  old  GOVERNOR  HANCOCK  out. 
The  Governor  came  with  his  Light-horse  Troop 
And  his  mounted  truckmen,  all  cock-a-hoop  ; 
Halberds  glittered  and  colors  flew, 
French  horns  whinnied  and  trumpets  blew, 
The  yellow  fifes  whistled  between  their  teeth 
And  the  bumble-bee  bass-drums  boomed  beneath ; 
So  he  rode  with  all  his  band, 
Till  the  President  met  him,  cap  in  hand. 
—  The  Governor  "  hefted  "  the  crowns,  and  said,  — 
"  A  will  is  a  will,  and  the  Parson  'a  dead." 
The  Governor  hefted  the  crowns.     Said  he,  — 
"  There  is  your  p'int.     And  here  'a  my  fee. 
These  are  the  terms  you  must  fulfil,  — 
On  such  conditions  I  BREAK  THE  WILL  !  " 
The  Governor  mentioned  what  these  should  be. 
(Just  wait  a  minute  and  then  you  '11  see.) 
The  President  prayed.     Then  all  was  still, 
And  the  Governor  rose  and  BROKE  THE  WILL  ! 


184:  PARSON  TURELL'S  LEGACY. 

—  "  About  those  conditions  ?  "     Well,  now  you  go 

And  do  as  I  tell  you,  and  then  you  '11  know. 

Once  a  year,  on  Commencement  day, 

If  you  '11  only  take  the  pains  to  stay, 

You  '11  see  the  President  in  the  CHAIR, 

Likewise  the  Governor  sitting  there. 

The  President  rises ;  both  old  and  young 

May  hear  his  speech  in  a  foreign  tongue, 

The  meaning  whereof,  as  lawyers  swear, 

Is  this  :  Can  I  keep  this  old  arm-chair  ? 

And  then  his  Excellency  bows, 

As  much  as  to  say  that  he  allows. 

The  Vice-Gub.  next  is  called  by  name ; 

He  bows  like  t'  other,  which  means  the  same. 

And  all  the  officers  round  'em  bow, 

As  much  as  to  say  that  they  allow. 

And  a  lot  of  parchments  about  the  chair 

Are  handed  to  witnesses  then  and  there, 

And  then  the  lawyers  hold  it  clear 

That  the  chair  is  safe  for  another  year. 

God  bless  you,  Gentlemen !     Learn  to  give 
Money  to  colleges  while  you  live. 
Don't  be  silly  and  think  you  '11  try 
To  bother  the  colleges,  when  you  die, 


PARSON  TURELL'S  LEGACY.  185 

With  codicil  this,  and  codicil  that, 
That  Knowledge  may  starve  while  Law  grows  fat ; 
For  there  never  was  pitcher  that  would  n't  spill, 
And  there 's  always  a  flaw  in  a  donkey's  will ! 


DE    SAUTY. 

AN   ELECTEO-CHEMICAL    ECLOGUE. 

Professor.  Slue-Nose. 

PROFESSOR. 

TELL  me,  O  Provincial !  speak,  Ceruleo-Nasal ! 
Lives  there  one  De  Sauty  extant  now  among  you, 
Whispering  Boanerges,  son  of  silent  thunder, 
Holding  talk  with  nations  ? 

Is  there  a  De  Sauty  ambulant  on  Tellus, 
Bifid-cleft  like  mortals,  dormient  in  night-cap, 
Having  sight,  smell,  hearing,  food-receiving  feature 
Three  times  daily  patent  ? 

Breathes  there  such  a  being,  O  Ceruleo-Nasal  ? 
Or  is  he  a  mythus,  —  ancient  word  for  "  humbug," — 
Such  as  Livy  told  about  the  wolf  that  wet-nursed 
Romulus  and  Remus  ? 


DE  SAUTY.  187 

Was  he  born  of  woman,  this  alleged  De  Sauty  ? 
Or  a  living  product  of  galvanic  action, 
Like  the  acarus  bred  in  Crosse's  flint-solution  ? 
Speak,  thou  Cyano-Rhinal ! 

BLUE-NOSE. 

Many  things  thou  askest,  jackknife-bearing  stranger, 
Much-conjecturing  mortal,  pork-and-treacle-waster ! 
Pretermit  thy  whittling,  wheel  thine  ear-flap  toward  me, 
Thou  shalt  hear  them  answered. 

When  the  charge  galvanic  tingled  through  the  cable, 
At  the  polar  focus  of  the  wire  electric 
Suddenly  appeared  a  white-faced  man  among  us  : 
Called  himself  «  DE  SAUTY." 

As  the  small  opossum  held  in  pouch  maternal 
Grasps  the  nutrient  organ  whence  the  term  mammalia, 
So  the  unknown  stranger  held  the  wire  electric, 
Sucking  in  the  current. 

When  the  current  strengthened,  bloomed  the  pale-faced 

stranger,  — 

Took  no  drink  nor  victual,  yet  grew  fat  and  rosy,  — 
And  from  time  to  time,  in  sharp  articulation, 
Said,  "Ml  right!  DE  SAUTY." 


188  DE  SAUTY. 

From  the  lonely  station  passed  the  utterance,  spreading 
Through  the  pines  and  hemlocks  to  the  groves  of  steeples, 
Till  the  land  was  filled  with  loud  reverberations 
Of  "All  right!    DE  SAUTY." 

When  the  current  slackened,  drooped  the  mystic  stran 
ger,— 

Faded,  faded,  faded,  as  the  stream  grew  weaker,  — 
Wasted  to  a  shadow,  with  a  hartshorn  odor 
•  Of  disintegration. 

Drops  of  deliquescence  glistened  on  his  forehead, 
Whitened  round  his  feet  the  dust  of  efflorescence, 
Till  one  Monday  morning,  when  the  flow  suspended, 
There  was  no  De  Sauty. 

Nothing  but  a  cloud  of  elements  organic, 

C.  O.  H.  N.  Ferrum,  Chlor.  Flu.  Sil.  Potassa, 

Calc.  Sod.  Phosph.  Mag.  Sulphur,  Mang.  (?)  Alumin.  (?) 

Cuprum,  (?) 
Such  as  man  is  made  of. 

Born  of  stream  galvanic,  with  it  he  had  perished  ! 
There  is  no  De  Sauty  now  there  is  no  current ! 
Give  us  a  new  cable,  then  again  we  '11  hear  him 
Cry,  "  AU  right !  DE  SAUTY." 


THE   OLD   MAN    DKEAMS. 


0  FOR  one  hour  of  youthful  joy  ! 
Give  back  my  twentieth  spring  ! 

1  'd  rather  laugh  a  bright-haired  boy 

Than  reign  a  gray-beard  king ! 

Off  with  the  wrinkled  spoils  of  age ! 

Away  with  learning's  crown  ! 
Tear  out  life's  wisdom-written  page, 

And  dash  its  trophies  down  ! 

One  moment  let  my  life-blood  stream 
From  boyhood's  fount  of  flame  ! 

Give  me  one  giddy,  reeling  dream 
Of  life  all  love  and  fame ! 


190  THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS. 

—  My  listening  angel  heard  the  prayer, 
And,  calmly  smiling,  said, 

"  If  I  but  touch  thy  silvered  hair, 
Thy  hasty  wish  hath  sped. 

"  But  is  there  nothing  in  thy  track 

To  bid  thee  fondly  stay, 
While  the  swift  seasons  hurry  back 

To  find  the  wished-for  day  ?  " 

—  Ah,  truest  soul  of  womankind  ! 
Without  thee,  what  were  life  ? 

One  bliss  I  cannot  leave  behind : 
I  '11  take  —  my — precious  —  wife ! 

—  The  angel  took  a  sapphire  pen 
And  wrote  in  rainbow  dew, 

"  The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 
And  be  a  husband  too  ! " 

—  "  And  is  there  nothing  yet  unsaid 
Before  the  change  appears  ? 

Remember,  all  their  gifts  have  fled 
With  those  dissolving  years  ! " 


THE  OLD  MAN  DREAMS.  191 

Why,  yes  ;  for  memory  would  recall 

My  fond  paternal  joys  ; 
'1  could  not  bear  to  leave  them  all ; 

I  '11  take  —  my  —  girl  —  and  —  boys ! 

The  smiling  angel  dropped  his  pen,  — 

"  Why  this  will  never  do  ; 
The  man  would  be  a  boy  again, 

And  be  a  father  too ! " 

And  so  I  laughed,  —  my  laughter  woke 

The  household  with  its  noise,  — 
And  wrote  my  dream,  when  morning  broke, 

To  please  the  gray-haired  boys. 


MAEE   EUBETJM, 

FLASH  out  a  stream  of  blood-red  wine !  — 

For  I  would  drink  to  other  days  ; 
And  brighter  shall  their  memory  shine, 

Seen  flaming  through  its  crimson  blaze. 
The  roses  die,  the  summers  fade ; 

But  every  ghost  of  boyhood's  dream 
By  Nature's  magic  power  is  laid 

To  sleep  beneath  this  blood-red  stream. 

It  filled  the  purple  grapes  that  lay 

And  drank  the  splendors  of  the  sun 
Where  the  long  summer's  cloudless  day 

Is  mirrored  in  the  broad  Garonne ; 
It  pictures  still  the  bacchant  shapes 

That  saw  their  hoarded  sunlight  shed,  — 
The  maidens  dancing  on  the  grapes,  — 

Their  milk-white  ankles  splashed  with  red. 


MARE  RUBRUM.  193 

Beneath  these  waves  of  crimson  lie, 

In  rosy  fetters  prisoned  fast, 
Those  flitting  shapes  that  never  die, 

The  swift-winged  visions  of  the  past. 
Kiss  but  the  crystal's  mystic  rim, 

Each  shadow  rends  its  flowery  chain, 
Springs  in  a  bubble  from  its  brim 

And  walks  the  chambers  of  the  brain. 

Poor  Beauty  !  time  and  fortune's  wrong 

No  form  nor  feature  may  withstand,  — 
Thy  wrecks  are  scattered  all  along, 

Like  emptied  sea-shells  on  the  sand ;  — 
Yet,  sprinkled  with  this  blushing  rain, 

The  dust  restores  each  blooming  girl, 
As  if  the  sea-shells  moved  again 

Their  glistening  lips  of  pink  and  pearl. 

Here  lies  the  home  of  schoolboy  life, 

With  creaking  stair  and  wind-swept  hall, 
And,  scarred  by  many  a  truant  knife, 

Our  old  initials  on  the  wall ; 
Here  rest  —  their  keen  vibrations  mute  — 

The  shout  of  voices  known  so  well, 
The  ringing  laugh,  the  wailing  flute, 

The  chiding  of  the  sharp-tongued  belt^..^ 


194  MARE  RUBRUM. 

Here,  clad  in  burning  robes,  are  laid 

Life's  blossomed  joys,  untimely  shed ; 
And  here  those  cherished  forms  have  strayed 

We  miss  awhile,  and  call  them  dead. 
What  wizard  fills  the  maddening  glass  ? 

What  soil  the  enchanted  clusters  grew, 
That  buried  passions  wake  and  pass 

In  beaded  drops  of  fiery  dew  ? 

Nay,  take  the  cup  of  blood-red  wine,  — 

Our  hearts  can  boast  a  warmer  glow, 
Filled  from  a  vintage  more  divine,  — 

Calmed,  but  not  chilled  by  winter's  snow  ! 
To-night  the  palest  wave  we  sip 

Rich  as  the  priceless  draught  shall  be 
That  wet  the  bride  of  Cana's  lip,  — 

The  wedding  wine  of  Galilee  ! 


WHAT   WE   ALL   THINK. 

THAT  age  was  older  once  than  now, 
In  spite  of  locks  untimely  shed, 

Or  silvered  on  the  youthful  brow  ; 

That  babes  make  love  and  children  wed. 

That  sunshine  had  a  heavenly  glow, 

Which  faded  with  those  "  good  old  days  " 

When  winters  came  with  deeper  snow, 
And  autumns  with  a  softer  haze. 

That  —  mother,  sister,  wife,  or  child  — 
The  "  best  of  women  "  each  has  known. 

Were  schoolboys  ever  half  so  wild  ? 

How  young  the  grandpapas  have  grown  ! 


196  WHAT  WE  ALL  THINK. 

That  but  for  this  our  souls  were  free, 
And  but  for  that  our  lives  were  blest ; 

That  in  some  season  yet  to  be 

Our  cares  will  leave  us  time  to  rest. 

Whene'er  we  groan  with  ache  or  pain,  — 
Some  common  ailment  of  the  race,  — 

Though  doctors  think  the  matter  plain,  — 
That  ours  is  "  a  peculiar  case." 

That  when  like  babes  with  fingers  burned 
We  count  one  bitter  maxim  more, 

Our  lesson  all  the  world  has  learned, 
And  men  are  wiser  than  before. 

That  when  we  sob  o'er  fancied  woes, 
The  angels  hovering  overhead 

Count  every  pitying  drop  that  flows 
And  love  us  for  the  tears  we  shed. 

That  when  we  stand  with  tearless  eye 
And  turn  the  beggar  from  our  door, 

They  still  approve  us  when  we  sigh, 
"  Ah,  had  I  but  one  thousand  more  I  " 


WHAT  WE  ALL  THINK.  197 

Though  temples  crowd  the  crumbled  brink 

O'erhanging  truth's  eternal  flow, 
Their  tablets  bold  with  what  we  think, 

Their  echoes  dumb  to  what  we  know  ; 

That  one  unquestioned  text  we  read, 

All  doubt  beyond,  all  fear  above, 
Nor  crackling  pile  nor  cursing  creed 

Can  burn  or  blot  it :  GOD  is  LOVE  ! 


SPEING   HAS   COME. 

INTRA  MUROS. 

THE  sunbeams,  lost  for  half  a  year, 

Slant  through  my  pane  their  morning  rays  ; 

For  dry  northwesters  cold  and  clear, 
The  east  blows  in  its  thin  blue  haze. 

And  first  the  snowdrop's  bells  are  seen, 
Then  close  against  the  sheltering  wall 

The  tulip's  horn  of  dusky  green, 
The  peony's  dark  unfolding  ball. 

The  golden-chaliced  crocus  burns  ; 

The  long  narcissus-blades  appear  ; 
The  cone-beaked  hyacinth  returns 

To  li<2rht  her  blue-flamed  chandelier. 


SPRIXG  HAS  COME.  199 

The  willow's  whistling  lashes,  wrung 

By  the  wild  winds  of  gusty  March, 
With  sallow  leaflets  lightly  strung, 

Are  swaying  by  the  tufted  larch. 

The  elms  have  robed  their  slender  spray 
"With  full-blown  flower  and  embryo  leaf; 

Wide  o'er  the  clasping  arch  of  day 
Soars  like  a  cloud  their  hoary  chief. 

See  the  proud  tulip's  flaunting  cup, 
That  flames  in  glory  for  an  hour,  — 

Behold  it  withering,  —  then  look  up,  — 
How  meek  the  forest  monarch's  flower  ! 

When  wake  the  violets,  Winter  dies  ; 

When  sprout  the  elm-buds,  Spring  is  near ; 
When  lilacs  blossom,  Summer  cries, 

"  Bud,  little  roses  !  Spring  is  here  !  " 

The  windows  blush  with  fresh  bouquets, 
Cut  with  the  May-dew  on  their  lips  ; 

The  radish  all  its  bloom  displays, 
Pink  as  Aurora's  finger-tips. 


200  SPEING  HAS  COME. 

Nor  less  the  flood  of  light  that  showers 
On  beauty's  changed  corolla-shades,  — 

The  walks  are  gay  as  bridal  bowers 
With  rows  of  many-petalled  maids. 

The  scarlet  shell-fish  click  and  clash 
In  the  blue  barrow  where  they  slide  ; 

The  horseman,  proud  of  streak  and  splash, 
Creeps  homeward  from  his  morning  ride. 

Here  comes  the  dealer's  awkward  string, 
With  neck  in  rope  and  tail  in  knot,  — 

Rough  colts,  with  careless  country-swing, 
In  lazy  walk  or  slouching  trot. 

Wild  filly  from  the  mountain-side, 

Doomed  to  the  close  and  chafing  thills, 

Lend  me  thy  long,  untiring  stride 
To  seek  with  thee  thy  western  hills  ! 

I  hear  the  whispering  voice  of  Spring, 
The  thrush's  trill,  the  robin's  cry, 

Like  some  poor  bird  with  prisoned  wing 
That  sits  and  sings,  but  longs  to  fly. 


SPRING  HAS  COME.  201 

0  for  one  spot  of  living  green,  — 

One  little  spot  where  leaves  can  grow,  — 

To  love  unblamed,  to  walk  unseen, 
To  dream  above,  to  sleep  below  ! 


A   GOOD   TIME   GOING! 

BRAVE  singer  of  the  coming  time, 

Sweet  minstrel  of  the  joyous  present, 
Crowned  with  the  noblest  wreath  of  rhyme, 

The  holly-leaf  of  Ayrshire's  peasant, 
Good  by  !  Good  by  !  —  Our  hearts  and  hands, 

Our  lips  in  honest  Saxon  phrases, 
Cry,  God  be  with  him,  till  he  stands 

His  feet  among  the  English  daisies  ! 

'T  is  here  we  part ;  —  for  other  eyes 

The  busy  deck,  the  fluttering  streamer, 
The  dripping  arms  that  plunge  and  rise, 

The  waves  in  foam,  .the  ship  in  tremor, 
The  kerchiefs  waving  from  the  pier, 

The  cloudy  pillar  gliding  o'er  him, 
The  deep  blue  desert,  lone  and  drear, 

With  heaven  above  and  home  before  him ! 


A  GOOD  TIME   GOING!  203 

His  home  !  —  the  Western  giant  smiles, 

And  twirls  the  spotty  globe  to  find  it ;  — 
This  little  speck  the  British  Isles  ? 

'T  is  but  a  freckle,  —  never  mind  it ! 
He  laughs,  and  all  his  prairies  roll, 

Each  gurgling  cataract  roars  and  chuckles, 
And  ridges  stretched  from  pole  to  pole 

Heave  till  they  crack  their  iron  knuckles  ! 

But  Memory  blushes  at  the  sneer, 

And  Honor  turns  with  frown  defiant, 
And  Freedom,  leaning  on  her  spear, 

Laughs  louder  than  the  laughing  giant : 
"  An  islet  is  a  world,"  she  said, 

"  When  glory  with  its  dust  has  blended, 
And  Britain  keeps  her  noble  dead 

Till  earth  and  seas  and  skies  are  rended ! " 

Beneath  each  swinging  forest-bough 

Some  arm  as  stout  in  death  reposes,  — 
From  wave-washed  foot  to  heaven-kissed  brow 

Her  valor's  life-blood  runs  in  roses  ; 
Nay,  let  our  brothers  of  the  West 

Write  smiling  in  their  florid  pages, 
One  half  her  soil  has  walked  the  rest 

In  poets,  heroes,  martyrs,  sages  ! 


204  A  GOOD  TIME  GOING! 

Hugged  in  the  clinging  billow's  clasp, 

From  sea-weed  fringe  to  mountain  heather, 
The  British  oak  with  rooted  grasp 

Her  slender  handful  holds  together  ;  — 
With  cliffs  of  white  and  bowers  of  green, 

And  Ocean  narrowing  to  caress  her, 
And  hills  and  threaded  streams  between,  — 

Our  little  mother  isle,  God  bless  her ! 

In  earth's  broad  temple  where  we  stand, 

Fanned  by  the  eastern  gales  that  brought  us, 
We  hold  the  missal  in  our  hand, 

Bright  with  the  lines  our  Mother  taught  us  ; 
Where'er  its  blazoned  page  betrays 

The  glistening  links  of  gilded  fetters, 
Behold,  the  half-turned  leaf  displays 

Her  rubric  stained  in  crimson  letters  ! 

Enough  !    To  speed  a  parting  friend 

'T  is  vain  alike  to  speak  and  listen  ;  — 
Yet  stay,  —  these  feeble  accents  blend 

With  rays  of  light  from  eyes  that  glisten. 
Good  by !  once  more,  —  and  kindly  tell 

In  words  of  peace  the  young  world's  story,  — 
And  say,  besides,  we  love  too  well 

Our  mothers'  soil,  our  fathers'  glory  ! 


THE   LAST   BLOSSOM. 

THOUGH  young  no  more,  we  still  would  dream 

Of  beauty's  dear  deluding  wiles  ; 
The  leagues  of  life  to  graybeards  seem 

Shorter  than  boyhood's  lingering  miles. 

Who  knows  a  woman's  wild  caprice  ? 

It  played  with  Goethe's  silvered  hair, 
And  many  a  Holy  Father's  "  niece  " 

Has  softly  smoothed  the  papal  chair. 

When  sixty  bids  us  sigh  in  vain 


To  melt  the  heart  of  sweet  sixteen, 
We  think  upon  those  ladies  twain 

Who  loved  so  well  the  tou^h  old  Dean. 


206  THE  LAST  BLOSSOM. 

We  see  the  Patriarch's  wintry  face, 
The  maid  of  Egypt's  dusky  glow, 

And  dream  that  Youth  and  Age  embrace, 
As  April  violets  fill  with  snow. 

Tranced  in  her  lord's  Olympian  smile 
His  lotus-loving  Memphian  lies,  — 

The  musky  daughter  of  the  Nile, 
With  plaited  hair  and  almond  eyes. 

Might  we  but  share  one  wild  caress 
Ere  life's  autumnal  blossoms  fall, 

And  Earth's  brown,  clinging  lips  impress 
The  long  cold  kiss  that  waits  us  all ! 

My  bosom  heaves,  remembering  yet 
The  morning  of  that  blissful  day, 

When  Rose,  the  flower  of  spring,  I  met, 
And  gave  my  raptured  soul  away. 

Flung  from  her  eyes  of  purest  blue, 
A  lasso,  with  its  leaping  chain, 

Light  as  a  loop  of  larkspurs,  flew 

O'er  sense  and  spirit,  heart  and  brain. 


THE  LAST  BLOSSOM.  207 

Thou  com'st  to  cheer  my  waning  age, 

Sweet  vision,  waited  for  so  long  ! 
Dove  that  would  seek  the  poet's  cage 

Lured  by  the  magic  breath  of  song  ! 

She  blushes  !  Ah,  reluctant  maid, 

Love's  drapeau  rouge  the  truth  has  told  ! 

O'er  girlhood's  yielding  barricade 

Floats  the  great  Leveller's  crimson  fold ! 

Come  to  my  arms !  —  love  heeds  not  years  ; 

No  frost  the  bud  of  passion  knows.  — 
Ha !  what  is  this  my  frenzy  hears  ? 

A  voice  behind  me  uttered,  —  Rose  ! 

Sweet  was  her  smile,  —  but  not  for  me  ; 

Alas  !  when  woman  looks  too  kind, 
Just  turn  your  foolish  head  and  see,  — 

Some  youth  is  walking  close  behind  ! 


"THE    BOYS." 

HAS  there  any  old  fellow  got  mixed  with  the  boys? 
If  there  has,  take  him  out,  without  making  a  noise. 
Hang  the  Almanac's  cheat  and  the  Catalogue's  spite  ! 
Old  time  is  a  liar !     We  're  twenty  to-night ! 

We  're   twenty !    We  're   twenty !    Who  says  we  are 

more? 
He 's    tipsy,  —  young    jackanapes  !  —  show    him    the 

door ! 
"  Gray    temples    at    twenty  ?  "  —  Yes !    white    if   we 

please ; 
Where  the  snow-flakes  fall  thickest  there 's  nothing  can 

freeze ! 

Was  it  snowing  I  spoke  of  ?     Excuse  the  mistake  ! 
Look  close,  —  you  will  see  not  a  sign  of  a  flake  ! 


"THE  BOYS."  209 

We  want  some  new  garlands  for  those  we  have  shed,  — 
And  these  are  white  roses  in  place  of  the  red. 

We  Ve  a  trick,  we  young  fellows,  you  may  have  been 

told, 

Of  talking  (in  public)  as  if  we  were  old  :  — 
That  boy  we  call  "  Doctor,"  and  this  we  call  "  Judge " ; 
It 's  a  neat  little  fiction,  —  of  course  it 's  all  fudge. 

That  fellow  's  the  «  Speaker,"  —  the  one  on  the  right ; 
"  Mr.  Mayor,"  my  young  one,  how  are  you  to-night  ? 
That 's  our  "  Member  of  Congress,"  we  say  when  we 

chaff; 
There's  the  "Reverend"  What's  his  name?  —  don't 

make  me  laugh. 

That  boy  with  the  grave  mathematical  look 

Made  believe  he  had  written  a  wonderful  book, 

And  the  ROYAL  SOCIETY  thought  it  was  true! 

So  they  chose  him  right  in,  —  a  good  joke  it  was  too  ! 

There  's  a  boy,  we  pretend,  with  a  three-decker  brain, 
That  could  harness  a  team  with  a  logical  chain ; 
When  he  spoke  for  our  manhood  in  syllabled  fire, 
We  called  him  "  The  Justice,"  but  now  he 's   "  The 
Squire." 


210  "THE  BOYS." 

And  there  's  a  nice  youngster  of  excellent  pith,  — 
Fate  tried  to  conceal  him  by  naming  him  Smith  ; 
But  he  shouted  a  song  for  the  brave  and  the  free,  — 
Just  read  on  his  medal,  "  My  country,"  "  of  thee ! " 

You  hear  that  boy  laughing  ?  —  You  think  he  's  all  fun ; 
But  the  angels  laugh,  too,  at  the  good  he  has  done  ; 
The  children  laugh  loud  as  they  troop  to  his  call, 
And  the  poor  man  that  knows  him  laughs  loudest  of  all ! 

Yes,  we  're  boys,  —  always  playing  with  tongue  or  with 

pen; 

And  I  sometimes  have  asked,  Shall  we  ever  be  men  ? 
Shall  we  always  be  youthful,  and  laughing,  and  gay, 
Till  the  last  dear  companion  drops  smiling  away  ? 

Then  here  's  to  our  boyhood,  its  gold  and  its  gray  ! 
The  stars  of  its  winter,  the  dews  of  its  May  ! 
And  when  we  have  done  with  our  life-lasting  toys, 
Dear  Father,  take  care  of  thy  children,  THE  BOYS  ! 

January  6, 1859. 


THE  OPENING  OF  THE  PIANO. 

IN  the  little  southern  parlor  of  the  house  you  may  have 

seen 
With  the  gambrel-roof,  and  the  gable  looking  westward 

to  the  green, 
At  the  side  toward  the  sunset,  with  the  window  on  its 

right, 
Stood  the  London-made  piano  I  am  dreaming  of  to-night ! 

Ah  me !  how  I  remember  the  evening  when  it  came ! 
What  a  cry  of  eager  voices,  what  a  group  of  cheeks  in 

flame, 
When  the  wondrous  box  was  opened  that  had  come 

from  over  seas, 
With  its  smell  of  mastic-varnish  and  its  flash  of  ivory 

keys  ! 


212  THE  OPENING  OF  THE  PIANO. 

Then  the  children  all  grew  fretful  in  the  restlessness  of 

joy, 

For  the  boy  would  push  his  sister,  and  the  sister  crowd 

the  boy,  t 

Till  the  father  asked  for  quiet  in  his  grave  paternal 

way, 
But  the  mother  hushed  the   tumult  with   the  words, 

"  Now,  Mary,  play." 

For  the  dear  soul  knew  that  music  was  a  very  sover 
eign  balm  ; 

She  had  sprinkled  it  over  Sorrow  and  seen  its  brow 
grow  calm, 

In  the  days  of  slender  harpsichords  with  tapping  tink 
ling  quills, 

Or  carolling  to  her  spinet  with  its  thin  metallic  thrills. 

So  Mary,  the  household  minstrel,  who  always  loved  to 
please, 

Sat  down  to  the  new  "  Clementi,"  and  struck  the  glit 
tering  keys. 

Hushed  were  the  children's  voices,  and  every  eye  grew 
dim, 

As,  floating  from  lip  and  finger,  arose  the  "Vesper 
Hymn." 


THE   OPENING   OF   THE   PIANO.  213 

• —  Catharine,  child  of  a  neighbor,  curly  and  rosy-red, 
( Wedded  since,  and  a  widow,  —  something  like   ten 

years  dead,) 

Hearing  a  gush  of  music  such  as  none  before, 
Steals   from  her  mother's  chamber  and  peeps  at  the 

open  door. 

Just  as  the  "  Jubilate  "  in  threaded  whisper  dies, 
"  Open  it !  open  it,  lady  ! "  the  little  maiden  cries, 
(For  she  thought  't  was  a  singing  creature  caged  in  a 

box  she  heard,) 
"  Open  it !  open  it,  lady  !  and  let  me  see  the  bird!  " 


MIDSUMMEE, 

HERE  !  sweep  these  foolish  leaves  away,  — • 
I  will  not  crush  my  brains  to-day  ! 
Look !  are  the  southern  curtains  drawn  ? 
Fetch  me  a  fan,  and  so  begone  ! 

Not  that,  —  the  palm-trees  rustling  leaf 
Brought  from  a  parching  coral-reef  ! 
Its  breath  is  heated  ;  —  I  would  swing 
The  broad  gray  plumes,  —  the  eagle's  wing. 

I  hate  these  roses'  feverish  blood  !  — 
Pluck  me  a  half-blown  lily-bud, 
A  long-stemmed  lily  from  the  lake, 
Cold  as  a  coiling  water-snake. 


MIDSUMMER.  215 

Rain  me  sweet  odors  on  the  air, 
And  wheel  me  up  my  Indian  chair, 
And  spread  some  book  not  overwise 
Flat  out  before  my  sleepy  eyes. 

—  Who  knows  it  not,  —  this  dead  recoil 
Of  weary  fibres  stretched  with  toil,  — 
The  pulse  that  flutters  faint  and  low 
When  Summer's  seething  breezes  blow  ? 

O  Nature  !  bare  thy  loving  breast, 
And  give  thy  child  one  hour  of  rest,  — 
One  little  hour  to  lie  unseen 
Beneath  thy  scarf  of  leafy  green  ! 

So,  curtained  by  a  singing  pine, 

Its  murmuring  voice  shall  blend  with  mine, 

Till,  lost  in  dreams,  my  faltering  lay 

In  sweeter  music  dies  away. 


A   PAKTING   HEALTH. 

TO  J.  L.  MOTLEY. 

YES,  we  knew  we  must  lose  him,  —  though  friendship 

may  claim 

To  blend  her  green  leaves  with  the  laurels  of  fame  ; 
Though  fondly,  at  parting,  we  call  him  our  own, 
'Tis  the  whisper  of  love  when  the  bugle  has  blown. 

As  the  rider  that  rests  with  the  spur  on  his  heel,  — 
As  the  guardsman  that  sleeps  in  his  corselet  of  steel,  — 
As  the  archer  that  stands  with  his  shaft  on  the  string, 
He  stoops  from  his  toil  to  the  garland  we  bring. 

What  pictures  yet  slumber  unborn  in  his  loom, 

Till  their  warriors  shall  breathe  and  their  beauties  shall 

bloom, 

"While  the  tapestry  lengthens  the  life-glowing  dyes 
That  caught  from  our  sunsets  the  stain  of  their  skies ! 


TO  J.   L.   MOTLEY.  217 

In  the  alcoves  of  death,  in  the  charnels  of  time, 
Where  flit  the  gaunt  spectres  of  passion  and  crime, 
There  are  triumphs  untold,  there  are  martyrs  unsung, 
There  are  heroes  yet  silent  to  speak  with  his  tongue ! 

Let  us  hear  the  proud  story  which  time  has  bequeathed ! 
From    lips    that    are   warm   with    the   freedom   they 

breathed ! 

Let  him  summon  its  tyrants,  and  tell  us  their  doom, 
Though  he  sweep  the  black  past  like  Van  Tromp  with 

his  broom  I 


The  dream  flashes  by,  for  the  west-winds  awake 
On  pampas,  on  prairie,  o'er  mountain  and  lake, 
To  bathe  the  swift  bark,  like  a  sea-girdled  shrine, 
With  incense  they  stole  from  the  rose  and  the  pine. 

So  fill  a  bright  cup  with  the  sunlight  that  gushed 
When  the  dead  summer's  jewels  were  trampled  and 

crushed  : 
THE  TRUE  KXIGHT  OF  LEARNING,  —  the  world  holds 

him  dear,  — 

Love  bless  him,  Joy  crown  him,  God  speed  his  career ! 
1857. 

10 


A   GOOD-BY. 

TO    J.    R.    LOWELL. 

FAREWELL,  for  the  bark  has  her  breast  to  the  tide, 
And  the  rough  arms  of  Ocean  are   stretched  for  his 

bride  ; 

The  winds  from  the  mountain  stream  over  the  bay  ; 
One  clasp  of  the  hand,  then  away  and  away  ! 

I  see  the  tall  mast  as  it  rocks  by  the  shore ; 
The  sun  is  declining,  I  see  it  once  more  ; 
To-day  like  the  blade  in  a  thick-waving  field, 
To-morrow  the  spike  on  a  Highlander's  shield. 

Alone,  while  the  cloud  pours  its  treacherous  breath, 
With   the  blue   lips   all   round  her   whose  kisses  are 

death  ; 

Ah,  think  not  the  breeze  that  is  urging  her  sail 
Has  left  her  unaided  to  strive  with  the  gale. 


TO  J.   R.   LOWELL.  219 

There  are  hopes  that  play  round  her,  like  fires  on  the 

mast, 

That  will  light  the  dark  hour  till  its  danger  has  past ; 
There  are  prayers  that  will  plead  with  the  storm  when 

it  raves, 
And  whisper  "  Be  still !  "  to  the  turbulent  waves. 

Nay,  think  not  that  Friendship  has  called  us  in  vain 

To  join  the  fair  ring  ere  we  break  it  again  ; 

There  is  strength  in  its  circle,  —  you  lose  the  bright 

star, 
But  its  sisters  still  chain  it,  though  shining  afar. 

I  give  you  one  health  in  the  juice  of  the  vine, 
The  blood  of  the  vineyard  shall  mingle  with  mine  ; 
Thus,  thus  let  us  drain  the  last  dew-drops  of  gold, 
As  we  empty  our  hearts  of  the  blessings  they  hold. 

April  29,  1855. 


AT   A   BIETHDAY   FESTIVAL, 

TO  J.  R.  LOWELL. 

WE  will  not  speak  of  years  to-night,  — 
For  what  have  years  to  bring 

But  larger  floods  of  love  and  light, 
And  sweeter  songs  to  sing  ? 

We  will  not  drown  in  wordy  praise 
The  kindly  thoughts  that  rise  ; 

If  Friendship  own  one  tender  phrase, 
He  reads  it  in  our  eyes. 

We  need  not  waste  our  schoolboy  art 
To  gild  this  notch  of  Time  ;  — 

Forgive  me  if  my  wayward  heart 
Has  throbbed  in  artless  rhyme. 


TO  J.   R.   LOWELL.  221 

Enough  for  him  the  silent  grasp 

That  knits  us  hand  in  hand, 
And  he  the  bracelet's  radiant  clasp 

That  locks  our  circling  band. 

Strength  to  his  hours  of  manly  toil ! 

Peace  to  his  starlit  dreams  ! 
Who  loves  alike  the  furrowed  soil, 

The  music-haunted  streams  ! 

Sweet  smiles  to  keep  forever  bright 

The  sunshine  on  his  lips, 
And  faith  that  sees  the  ring  of  light 

Round  nature's  last  eclipse  ! 

February  22,  1859. 


A   BIBTHDAY   TEIBUTE. 

TO  J.  F.   CLARKE* 

WHO  is  the  shepherd  sent  to  lead, 

Through  pastures  green,  the  Master's  sheep  ? 
What  guileless  "  Israelite  indeed  " 

The  folded  flock  may  watch  and  keep  ? 

He  who  with  manliest  spirit  joins 
The  heart  of  gentlest  human  mould, 

With  burning  light  and  girded  loins, 
To  guide  the  flock,  or  watch  the  fold ; 

True  to  all  Truth  the  world  denies, 

Not  tongue-tied  for  its  gilded  sin ; 
Not  always  right  in  all  men's  eyes, 

But  faithful  to  the  light  within  ; 


TO  J.  F.   CLARKE.  223 

Who  asks  no  meed  of  earthly  fame, 
Who  knows  no  earthly  master's  call, 

Who  hopes  for  man,  through  guilt  and  shame, 
Still  answering,  "  God  is  over  all ;  " 

Who  makes  another's  grief  his  own, 
Whose  smile  lends  joy  a  double  cheer  ; 

Where  lives  the  saint,  if  such  be  known  ?  — 
Speak  softly,  —  such  an  one  is  here ! 

O  faithful  shepherd  !  thou  hast  borne 

The  heat  and  burden  of  the  day  ; 
Yet,  o'er  thee,  bright  with  beams  unshorn, 

The  sun  still  shows  thine  onward  way. 

To  thee  our  fragrant  love  we  bring, 

In  buds  that  April  hah0  displays, 
Sweet  first-born  angels  of  the  spring, 

Caught  in  their  opening  hymn  of  praise. 

What  though  our  faltering  accents  fail, 
Our  captives  know  their  message  well, 

Our  words  unbreathed  their  lips  exhale, 
And  sigh  more  love  than  ours  can  tell. 

AprU  4,  1860. 


THE    GEAY    CHIEF, 


FOE  THE   MEETING   OF   THE    MASSACHUSETTS   MEDICAL   SOCIETY, 

1859. 


'T  is  sweet  to  fight  our  battles  o'er, 

And  crown  with  honest  praise 
The  gray  old  chief,  who  strikes  no  more 

The  blow  of  better  days. 

Before  the  true  and  trusted  sage 

With  willing  hearts  we  bend, 
When  years  have  touched  with  hallowing  age 

Our  Master,  Guide,  and  Friend. 

For  all  his  manhood's  labor  past, 

For  love  and  faith  long  tried, 
His  age  is  honored  to  the  last, 

Though  strength  and  will  have  died. 


THE   GRAY  CHIEF.  225 

But  when,  untamed  by  toil  and  strife, 

Full  in  our  front  he  stands, 
The  torch  of  light,  the  shield  of  life, 

Still  lifted  in  his  hands, 

No  temple,  though  its  walls  resound 

With  bursts  of  ringing  cheers, 
Can  hold  the  honors  that  surround 

His  manhood's  twice-told  years  ! 


10 


THE    LAST   LOOK. 

W.  W.   SWAIN. 

BEHOLD  —  not  him  we  knew ! 
This  was  the  prison  which  his  soul  looked  through, 
Tender,  and  brave,  and  true. 

His  voice  no  more  is  heard  ; 
And  his  dead  name  —  that  dear  familiar  word  — 
Lies  on  our  lips  unstirred. 

He  spake  with  poet's  tongue  ; 
Living,  for  him  the  minstrel's  lyre  was  strung : 
He  shall  not  die  unsung  ! 

Grief  tried  his  love,  and  pain  ; 
And  the  long  bondage  of  his  martyr-chain 
Vexed  his  sweet  soul,  —  in  vain ! 


THE  LAST   LOOK.  227 

It  felt  life's  surges  break, 
As,  girt  with  stormy  seas,  his  island  lake, 
Smiling  while  tempests  wake. 

How  can  we  sorrow  more  ? 
Grieve  not  for  him  whose  heart  had  gone  before 
To  that  untrodden  shore  ! 

Lo,  through  its  leafy  screen, 
A  gleam  of  sunlight  on  a  ring  of  green, 
Untrodden,  hah0  unseen ! 

Here  let  his  body  rest, 

Where  the  calm  shadows  that  his  soul  loved  best 
May  slide  above  his  breast. 

Smooth  his  uncurtained  bed  ; 
And  if  some  natural  tears  are  softly  shed, 
It  is  not  for  the  dead. 

Fold  the  green  turf  aright 
For  the  long  hours  before  the  morning's  light, 
And  say  the  last  Good  Night ! 


228  THE  LAST  LOOK. 

And  plant  a  clear  white  stone 

Close  by  those  mounds  which  hold  his  loved,  his  own, 
Lonely,  but  not  alone. 

Here  let  him  sleeping  lie, 

Till  Heaven's  bright  watchers  slumber  in  the  sky, 
And  Death  himself  shall  die  ! 

NAUSHON,  September  22, 1858. 


IN    MEMORY    OF 

CHAELES    WENTWOKTH    TJPHAM,    JUNIOB, 

HE  was  all  sunshine  ;  in  his  face 
The  very  soul  of  sweetness  shone  ; 

Fairest  and  gentlest  of  his  race  ; 
None  like  him  we  can  call  our  own. 

Something  there  was  of  one  that  died 
In  her  fresh  spring-time  long  ago, 

Our  first  dear  Mary,  angel-eyed, 
Whose  smile  it  was  a  bliss  to  know. 

Something  of  her  whose  love  imparts 
Such  radiance  to  her  day's  decline, 

We  feel  its  twilight  in  our  hearts 
Bright  as  the  earliest  morning-shine. 


230  IN  MEMORY  OF 

Yet  richer  strains  our  eye  could  trace 
That  made  our  plainer  mould  more  fair, 

That  curved  the  lip  with  happier  grace, 
That  waved  the  soft  and  silken  hair. 

Dust  unto  dust !  the  lips  are  still 
That  only  spoke  to  cheer  and  bless ; 

The  folded  hands  lie  white  and  chill 
Unclasped  from  sorrow's  last  caress. 

Leave  him  in  peace  ;  he  will  not  heed 
These  idle  tears  we  vainly  pour, 

Give  back  to  earth  the  fading  weed 
Of  mortal  shape  his  spirit  wore. 

"  Shall  I  not  weep  my  heartstrings  torn, 
My  flower  of  love  that  falls  half  blown, 

My  youth  uncrowned,  my  life  forlorn, 
A  thorny  path  to  walk  alone  ?  " 

O  Mary !  one  who  bore  thy  name, 

Whose  Friend  and  Master  was  divine, 

Sat  waiting  silent  till  He  came, 

Bowed  down  in  speechless  grief  like  thine. 


CHARLES  WENT  WORTH  UPHAM,  JUNIOR.        231 

"  Where  have  ye  laid  him  ?  "  "  Come,"  they  say, 
Pointing  to  where  the  loved  one  slept ; 

Weeping,  the  sister  led  the  way,  — 
And,  seeing  Mary,  "  Jesus  wept." 

He  weeps  with  thee,  with  all  that  mourn, 
And  He  shall  wipe  thy  streaming  eyes 

Who  knew  all  sorrows,  woman-born,  — 
Trust  in  his  word  ;  thy  dead  shall  rise  ! 

April  15,  1860. 


MAETHA, 

DIED   JANUARY   7,    1861. 

SEXTON  !   Martha 's  dead  and  gone  ; 

Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell ! 
Her  weary  hands  their  labor  cease  ; 
Good  night,  poor  Martha,  —  sleep  in  peace  ! 
Toll  the  bell ! 

Sexton  !    Martha  's  dead  and  gone  ; 
Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell ! 
For  many  a  year  has  Martha  said, 
"  I  'm  old  and  poor,  —  would  I  were  dead  ! " 
Toll  the  bell ! 

Sexton  !    Martha 's  dead  and  gone  ; 
Toll  the  bell !   toll  the  bell ! 
She  '11  bring  no  more,  by  day  or  night, 
Her  basket  full  of  linen  white. 
Toll  the  bell ! 


MARTHA.  233 

Sexton !   Martha 's  dead  and  gone  ; 
Toll  the  bell !  toll  the  bell ! 
'T  is  fitting  she  should  He  below 
A  pure  white  sheet  of  drifted  snow. 
Toll  the  bell ! 

Sexton  !   Martha 's  dead  and  gone  ; 
Toll  the  bell !  toU  the  bell ! 
Sleep,  Martha,  sleep,  to  wake  in  light, 
Where  all  the  robes  are  stainless  white. 
ToU  the  bell ! 


SUN    AND   SHADOW. 

As  I  look  from  the  isle,  o'er  its  billows  of  green, 

To  the  billows  of  foam-crested  blue, 
Yon  bark,  that  afar  in  the  distance  is  seen, 

Half  dreaming,  my  eyes  will  pursue : 
Now  dark  in  the  shadow,  she  scatters  the  spray 

As  the  chaff  in  the  stroke  of  the  flail ; 
Now  white  as  the  sea-gull,  she  flies  on  her  way, 

The  sun  gleaming  bright  on  her  sail. 

Yet  her  pilot  is  thinking  of  dangers  to  shun,  — 

Of  breakers  that  whiten  and  roar ; 
How  little  he  cares,  if  in  shadow  or  sun 

They  see  him  who  gaze  from  the  shore ! 
He  looks  to  the  beacon  that  looms  from  the  reef, 

To  the  rock  that  is  under  his  lee, 
As  he  drifts  on  the  blast,  like  a  wind-wafted  leaf, 

O'er  the  gulfs  of  the  desolate  sea. 


SUN  AND  SHADOW.  235 

Thus  drifting  afar  to  the  dim-vaulted  caves 

Where  life  and  its  ventures  are  laid, 
The  dreamers  who  gaze  while  we  battle  the  waves 

May  see  us  in  sunshine  or  shade  ; 
Yet  true  to  our  course,  though  our  shadow  grow  dark, 

We  '11  trim  our  broad  sail  as  before, 
And  stand  by  the  rudder  that  governs  the  bark, 

Nor  ask  how  we  look  from  the  shore ! 


THE   CHAMBEEED    NAUTILUS. 


THIS  is  the  ship  of  pearl,  which,  poets  feign, 

Sails  the  unshadowed  main,  — 

The  venturous  bark  that  fl ings 
On  the  sweet  summer  wind  its  purpled  wings 
In  gulfs  enchanted,  where  the  Siren  sings, 

And  coral  reefs  lie  bare, 
Where  the  cold  sea-maids  rise  to  sun  their  streaming  hair. 

Its  webs  of  living  gauze  no  more  unfurl ; 

Wrecked  is  the  ship  of  pearl ! 

And  every  chambered  cell, 
Where  its  dim  dreaming  life  was  wont  to  dwell, 
As  the  frail  tenant  shaped  his  growing  shell, 

Before  thee  lies  revealed,  — 
Its  irised  ceiling  rent,  its  sunless  crypt  unsealed  ! 


THE  CHAMBERED  NAUTILUS.  237 

Year  after  year  beheld  the  silent  toil 

That  spread  his  lustrous  coil ; 

Still,  as  the  spiral  grew, 
He  left  the  past  year's  dwelling  for  the  new, 
Stole  with  soft  step  its  shining  archway  through, 

Built  up  its  idle  door, 

Stretched  in  his  last-found  home,  and  knew  the  old  no 
more. 

Thanks  for  the  heavenly  message  brought  by  thee, 

Child  of  the  wandering  sea, 

Cast  from  her  lap,  forlorn  ! 
From  thy  dead  lips  a  clearer  note  is  born 
Than  ever  Triton  blew  from  wreathed  horn  ! 

While  on  mine  ear  it  rings, 

Through  the  deep  caves  of  thought  I  hear  a  voice  that 
sings  :  — 

Build  thee  more  stately  mansions,  O  my  soul, 

As  the  swift  seasons  roll ! 

Leave  thy  low-vaulted  past ! 
Let  each  new  temple,  nobler  than  the  last, 
Shut  thee  from  heaven  with  a  dome  more  vast, 

Till  thou  at  length  art  free, 
Leaving  thine  outgrown  shell  by  life's  unresting  sea  ! 


THE   TWO   AEMIES. 

As  Life's  unending  column  pours, 
Two  marshalled  hosts  are  seen,  — 

Two  armies  on  the  trampled  shores 
That  Death  flows  black  between. 

One  marches  to  the  drum-beat's  roll, 
The  wide-mouthed  clarion's  bray, 

And  bears  upon  a  crimson  scroll, 
"  Our  glory  is  to  slay." 

One  moves  in  silence  by  the  stream, 
With  sad,  yet  watchful  eyes, 

Calm  as  the  patient  planet's  gleam 
That  walks  the  clouded  skies. 


THE  TWO  ARMIES.  239 

Along  its  front  no  sabres  shine, 

No  blood-red  pennons  wave  ; 
Its  banner  bears  the  single  line, 

"  Our  duty  is  to  save." 

For  those  no  death-bed's  lingering  shade  ; 

At  Honor's  trumpet-call, 
With  knitted  brow  and  lifted  blade 

In  Glory's  arms  they  fall. 

For  these  no  clashing  falchions  bright, 

No  stirring  battle-cry ; 
The  bloodless  stabber  calls  by  night,  — 

Each  answers,  "  Here  am  I ! " 

For  those  the  sculptor's  laurelled  bust, 

The  builder's  marble  piles, 
The  anthems  pealing  o'er  their  dust 

Through  long  cathedral  aisles. 

For  these  the  blossom-sprinkled  turf 

That  floods  the  lonely  graves, 
When  Spring  rolls  in  her  sea-green  surf 

In  flowery-foaming  waves. 


240  THE  TWO  ARMIES. 

Two  paths  lead  upward  from  below, 

And  angels  wait  above, 
Who  count  each  burning  life-drop's  flow, 

Each  falling  tear  of  Love. 

* 

Though  from  the  Hero's  bleeding  breast 

Her  pulses  Freedom  drew, 
Though  the  white  lilies  in  her  crest 

Sprang  from,  that  scarlet  dew,  — 

While  Valor's  haughty  champions  wait 
Till  all  their  scars  are  shown, 

Love  walks  unchallenged  through  the  gate, 
To  sit  beside  the  Throne  ! 


FOE  THE  MEETING  OF  THE  NATIONAL  SANITARY 
ASSOCIATION, 


I860. 


WHAT  makes  the  Healing  Art  divine  ? 

The  bitter  drug  we  buy  and  sell, 
The  brands  that  scorch,  the  blades  that  shine, 

The  scars  we  leave,  the  "  cures  "  we  tell  ? 

Are  these  thy  glories,  holiest  Art,  — 
The  trophies  that  adorn  thee  best,  — 

Or  but  thy  triumph's  meanest  part, 

Where  mortal  weakness  stands  confessed  ? 

We  take  the  arms  that  Heaven  supplies 
For  Life's  long  battle  with  Disease, 

Taught  by  our  various  need  to  prize 
Our  frailest  weapons,  even  these. 

11  p 


242  FOR  THE  MEETING  OF  THE 

But  ah  !  when  Science  drops  her  shield  — 
Its  peaceful  shelter  proved  in  vain  — 

And  bares  her  snow-white  arm  to  wield 
The  sad,  stern  ministry  of  pain  ; 

• 
When  shuddering  o'er  the  fount  of  life, 

She  folds  her  heaven-anointed  wings, 
To  lift  unmoved  the  glittering  knife 

That  searches  all  its  crimson  springs  ; 

When,  faithful  to  her  ancient  lore, 
She  thrusts  aside  her  fragrant  balm 

For  blistering  juice,  or  cankering  ore, 
And  tames  them  till  they  cure  or  calm  ; 

When  in  her  gracious  hand  are  seen 
The  dregs  and  scum  of  earth  and  seas, 

Her  kindness  counting  all  things  clean 
That  lend  the  sighing  sufferer  ease  ; 

Though  on  the  field  that  Death  has  won, 
She  saves  some  stragglers  in  retreat ;  — 

These  single  acts  of  mercy  done 
Are  but  confessions  of  defeat. 


NATIONAL  SANITARY  ASSOCIATION.  243 

What  though  our  tempered  poisons  save 
Some  wrecks  of  life  from  aches  and  ails : 

Those  grand  specifics  Nature  gave 

Were  never  poised  by  weights  or  scales ! 

God  lent  his  creatures  light  and  air, 

And  waters  open  to  the  skies  ; 
Man  locks  him  in  a  stifling  lair, 

And  wonders  why  his  brother  dies  ! 

In  vain  our  pitying  tears  are  shed, 

In  vain  we  rear  the  sheltering  pile 
Where  Art  weeds  out  from  bed  to  bed 

The  plagues  we  planted  by  the  mile  ! 

Be  that  the  glory  of  the  past ; 

With  these  our  sacred  toils  begin  : 
So  flies  in  tatters  from  its  mast 

The  yellow  flag  of  sloth  and  sin, 

And  lo !  the  starry  folds  reveal 

The  blazoned  truth  we  hold  so  dear : 

To  guard  is  better  than  to  heal,  — 
The  shield  is  nobler  than  the  spear ! 


MUSA, 

O  MY  lost  Beauty !  —  hast  thou  folded  quite 

Thy  wings  of  morning  light 

Beyond  those  iron  gates 

Where  Life  crowds  hurrying  to  the  haggard  Fates, 
And  Age  upon  his  mound  of  ashes  waits 

To  chill  our  fiery  dreams, 
Hot  from  the  heart  of  youth  plunged  in  his  icy  streams  ? 

Leave  me  not  fading  in  these  weeds  of  care, 

Whose  flowers  are  silvered  hair  ! 

Have  I  not  loved  thee  long, 

Though  my  young  lips  have  often  done  thee  wrong, 
And  vexed  thy  heaven-tuned  ear  with  careless  song  ? 

Ah,  wilt  thou  yet  return, 
Bearing  thy  rose-hued  torch,  and  bid  thine  altar  burn  ? 


MUSA.  245 

Coine  to  me  !  —  I  will  flood  thy  silent  shrine 

With  my  soul's  sacred  wine, 

And  heap  thy  marble  floors 

As  the  wild  spice-trees  waste  their  fragrant  stores 
In  leafy  islands  walled  with  madrepores 

And  lapped  in  Orient  seas, 

When  all  their  feathery  palms  toss,  plume-like,  in  the 
breeze. 

Come  to  me  !  —  thou  shalt  feed  on  honeyed  words, 

Sweeter  than  song  of  birds  ;  — 

No  wrailing  bulbul's  throat, 
No  melting  dulcimer's  melodious  note, 
When  o'er  the  midnight  wave  its  murmurs  float, 

Thy  ravished  sense  might  soothe 
With  flow  so  liquid-soft,  with  strain  so  velvet-smooth. 

Thou  shalt  be  decked  with  jewels,  like  a  queen, 

Sought  in  those  bowers  of  green 

Where  loop  the  clustered  vines 
And  the  close-clinging  dulcamara  *  twines,  — 
Pure  pearls  of  Maydew  where  the  moonlight  shines, 

*  The  "bitter-sweet"  of  New   England  is  the    Cdastms  scan- 
dens,  —  "  Bourreau  des  arbres  "  of  the  Canadian  French. 


246  MUSA. 

And  Summer's  fruited  gems, 
And    coral    pendants   shorn    from   Autumn's    berried 

stems. 

Sit  by  me  drifting  on  the  sleepy  waves,  — 

Or  stretched  by  grass-grown  graves, 

Whose  gray,  high-shouldered  stones, 
Carved  with  old  names  Life's  time-worn  roll  disowns, 
Lean,  lichen-spotted,  o'er  the  crumbled  bones 

Still  slumbering  where  they  lay 
While  the  sad  Pilgrim,  watched  to  scare  the  wolf  away. 

Spread  o'er  my  couch  thy  visionary  wing ! 

Still  let  me  dream  and  sing,  — 

Dream  of  that  winding  shore 

Where  scarlet  cardinals  bloom  —  for  me  no  more,  — 
The  stream  with  heaven  beneath  its  liquid  floor, 

And  clustering  nenuphars 
Sprinkling  its  mirrored  blue  like  golden-chaliced  stars  ! 

Come  while  their  balms  the  linden-blossoms  shed  !  — 

Come  while  the  rose  is  red,  — 

While  blue-eyed  Summer  smiles 
On  the  green  ripples  round  yon  sunken  piles 
Washed  by  the  moon-wave  warm  from  Indian  isles, 


MUSA.  247 

And  on  the  sultry  air 

The  chestnuts  spread   their  palms   like   holy  men  in 
prayer ! 

0  for  thy  burning  lips  to  fire  my  brain 

With  thrills  of  wild,  sweet  pain  !  — 

On  life's  autumnal  blast, 

Like  shrivelled  leaves,  youth's  passion-flowers  are  cast,  — 
Once  loving  thee,  we  love  thee  to  the  last !  — 

Behold  thy  new-decked  shrine, 

And  hear  once  more  the  voice  that  breathed  "  Forever 
thine ! " 


THE   VOICELESS, 

WE  count  the  broken  lyres  that  rest 

Where  the  sweet  wailing  singers  slumber, 
But  o'er  their  silent  sister's  breast 

The  wild-flowers  who  will  stoop  to  number  ? 
A  few  can  touch  the  magic  string, 

And  noisy  Fame  is  proud  to  win  them ;  — 
Alas  for  those  that  never  sing, 

But  die  with  all  their  music  in  them  ! 

Nay,  grieve  not  for  the  dead  alone 

Whose  song  has  told  their  hearts'  sad  story,  - 
Weep  for  the  voiceless,  who  have  known 

The  cross  without  the  crown  of  glory  ! 
Not  where  Leucadian  breezes  sweep 

O'er  Sappho's  memory-haunted  billow, 
But  where  the  glistening  night-dews  weep 

On  nameless  sorrow's  churchyard  pillow. 


THE  VOICELESS.  249 

O  hearts  that  break  and  give  no  sign 

Save  whitening  lip  and  fading  tresses, 
Till  Death  pours  out  his  cordial  wine 

Slow-dropped  from  Misery's  crushing  presses,  — 
If  singing  breath  or  echoing  chord 

To  every  hidden  pang  were  given, 
What  endless  melodies  were  poured, 

As  sad  as  earth,  as  sweet  as  heaven  ! 


11 


THE    CEOOKED    FOOTPATH, 

An,  here  it  is  !  the  sliding  rail 

That  marks  the  old  remembered  spot, 

The  gap  that  struck  our  schoolboy  trail,  - 
The  crooked  path  across  the  lot. 

It  left  the  road  by  school  and  church, 
A  pencilled  shadow,  nothing  more, 

That  parted  from  the  silver  birch 
And  ended  at  the  farm-house  door. 

No  line  or  compass  traced  its  plan  ; 

With  frequent  bends  to  left  or  right, 
In  aimless,  wayward  curves  it  ran, 

But  always  kept  the  door  in  sight. 


THE  CROOKED  FOOTPATH.         251 

The  gabled  porch,  with  woodbine  green,  — 

The  broken  millstone  at  the  sill,  — 
Though  many  a  rood  might  stretch  between, 

The  truant  child  could  see  them  still. 

No  rocks  across  the  pathway  lie,  — 
No  fallen  trunk  is  o'er  it  thrown,  — 

And  yet  it  winds,  we  know  not  why, 
And  turns  as  if  for  tree  or  stone. 

Perhaps  some  lover  trod  the  way 

With  shaking  knees  and  leaping  heart,  — 

And  so  it  often  runs  astray 

With  sinuous  sweep  or  sudden  start. 

Or  one,  perchance,  with  clouded  brain 
From  some  unholy  banquet  reeled,  — 

And  since,  our  devious  steps  maintain 
His  track  across  the  trodden  field. 

Nay,  deem  not  thus,  —  no  earthborn  will 

Could  ever  trace  a  faultless  line  ; 
Our  truest  steps  are  human  still,  — 

To  walk  unswerving  were  divine  ! 


252         THE  CROOKED  FOOTPATH. 

Truants  from  love,  we  dream  of  wrath  ;  — 
O,  rather  let  us  trust  the  more  ! 

Through  all  the  wanderings  of  the  path, 
We  still  can  see  our  Father's  door  ! 


THE   TWO   STEEAMS. 

BEHOLD  the  rocky  wall 
That  down  its  sloping  sides 

Pours  the  swift  rain-drops,  blending,  as  they  fall, 
In  rushing  river-tides ! 

Yon  stream,  whose  sources  run 
Turned  by  a  pebble's  edge, 
Is  Athabasca,  rolling  toward  the  sun 
Through  the  cleft  mountain-ledge. 

The  slender  rill  had  strayed, 
But  for  the  slanting  stone, 
To  evening's  ocean,  with  the  tangled  braid 
Of  foam-flecked  Oregon. 


254  THE   TWO   STREAMS. 

So  from  the  heights  of  Will 
Life's  parting  stream  descends, 
And,  as  a  moment  turns  its  slender  rill, 
Each  widening  torrent  bends,  — 

From  the  same  cradle's  side, 
From  the  same  mother's  knee,  — 
One  to  long  darkness  and  the  frozen  tide, 
One  to  the  Peaceful  Sea  ! 


ROBINSON    OF    LEYDEN. 

HE  sleeps  not  here  ;  in  hope  and  prayer 
His  wandering  flock  had  gone  before, 

But  he,  the  shepherd,  might  not  share 
Their  sorrows  on  the  wintry  shore. 

Before  the  Speedwell's  anchor  swung, 
Ere  yet  the  Mayflower's  sail  was  spread. 

While  round  his  feet  the  Pilgrims  clung, 
The  pastor  spake,  and  thus  he  said  :  — 

"  Men,  brethren,  sisters,  children  dear ! 

God  calls  you  hence  from  over  sea ; 
Ye  may  not  build  by  Haerlem  Meer, 

Nor  yet  along  the  Zuyder-Zee. 


256  ROBINSON  OF  LEYDEN. 

"  Ye  go  to  bear  the  saving  word 

To  tribes  unnamed  and  shores  untrod  : 

Heed  well  the  lessons  ye  have  heard 
From  those  old  teachers  taught  of  God. 

"  Yet  think  not  unto  them  was  lent 
All  light  for  all  the  coming  days, 

And  Heaven's  eternal  wisdom  spent 
In  making  straight  the  ancient  ways : 

"  The  living  fountain  overflows 
For  every  flock,  for  every  lamb, 

Nor  heeds,  though  angry  creeds  oppose 
With  Luther's  dike  or  Calvin's  dam." 

He  spake  :  with  lingering,  long  embrace, 
With  tears  of  love  and  partings  fond, 

They  floated  down  the  creeping  Maas, 
Along  the  isle  of  Ysselmond. 

They  passed  the  frowning  towers  of  Briel, 
The  "  Hook  of  Holland's  "  shelf  of  sand, 

And  grated  soon  with  lifting  keel 
The  sullen  shores  of  Fatherland. 


KOBINSON   OF   LEYDEN.  257 

No  home  for  these !  —  too  well  they  knew 
The  mitred  king  behind  the  throne  ;  — 

The  sails  were  set,  the  pennons  flew, 
And  westward  ho  !  for  worlds  unknown. 

—  And  these  were  they  who  gave  us  birth, 

The  Pilgrims  of  the  sunset  wave, 
Who  won  for  us  this  virgin  earth, 

And  freedom  with  the  soil  they  gave. 

The  pastor  slumbers  by  the  Rhine,  — 

In  alien  earth  the  exiles  lie,  — 
Their  nameless  graves  our  holiest  shrine, 

His  words  our  noblest  battle-cry  ! 

Still  cry  them,  and  the  world  shall  hear, 
Ye  dwellers  by  the  storm-swept  sea ! 

Ye  have  not  built  by  Haerlem  Meer, 
Nor  on  the  land-locked  Zuyder-Zee ! 


SAINT  ANTHONY  THE  EEFORMEE 

HIS  TEMPTATION. 

No  fear  lest  praise  should  make  us  proud ! 

We  know  how  cheaply  that  is  won  ; 
The  idle  homage  of  the  crowd 

Is  proof  of  tasks  as  idly  done. 

A  surface-smile  may  pay  the  toil 

That  follows  still  the  conquering  Right, 

With  soft,  white  hands  to  dress  the  spoil 
That  sun-browned  valor  clutched  in  fight. 

Sing  the  sweet  song  of  other  days, 

Serenely  placid,  safely  true, 
And  o'er  the  present's  parching  ways 

Thy  verse  distils  like  evening  dew. 


SAINT  ANTHONY  THE   REFORMER.  259 

But  speak  in  words  of  living  power,  — 
They  fall  like  drops  of  scalding  rain 

That  plashed  before  the  burning  shower 
Swept  o'er  the  cities  of  the  plain  ! 

Then  scowling  Hate  turns  deadly  pale,  — • 
Then  Passion's  half-coiled  adders  spring, 

And,  smitten  through  their  leprous  mail, 
Strike  right  and  left  in  hope  to  sting. 

If  thou,  unmoved  by  poisoning  wrath, 

Thy  feet  on  earth,  thy  heart  above, 
Canst  walk  in  peace  thy  kingly  path, 

Unchanged  in  trust,  unchilled  in  love,  — 

Too  kind  for  bitter  words  to  grieve, 

Too  firm  for  clamor  to  dismay, 
When  Faith  forbids  thee  to  believe, 

And  Meekness  calls  to  disobey,  — 

Ah,  then  beware  of  mortal  pride  ! 

The  smiling  pride  that  calmly  scorns 
Those  foolish  fingers,  crimson  dyed 

In  laboring  on  thy  crown  of  thorns  ! 


AYIS. 

I  MAY  not  rightly  call  thy  name,  — 

Alas  !  thy  forehead  never  knew 
The  kiss  that  happier  children  claim, 

Nor  glistened  with  baptismal  dew. 

Daughter  of  want  and  wrong  and  woe, 

I  saw  thee  with  thy  sister-band, 
Snatched  from  the  whirlpool's  narrowing  flow 

By  Mercy's  strong  yet  trembling  hand. 

—  "  Avis  ! "  —  With  Saxon  eye  and  cheek, 

At  once  a  woman  and  a  child, 
The  saint  uncrowned  I  came  to  seek 

Drew  near  to  greet  us,  —  spoke,  and  smiled. 


AVIS.  261 

God  gave  that  sweet  sad  smile  she  wore 
All  wrong  to  shame,  all  souls  to  win,  — 

A  heavenly  sunbeam  sent  before 

Her  footsteps  through  a  world  of  sin. 

—  "  And  who  is  Avis  ?"  —  Hear  the  tale 
The  calm-voiced  matrons  gravely  tell,  — 

The  story  known  through  all  the  vale 
Where  Avis  and  her  sisters  dwell. 

With  the  lost  children  running  wild, 
Strayed  from  the  hand  of  human  care, 

They  find  one  little  refuse  child 
Left  helpless  in  its  poisoned  lair. 

The  primal  mark  is  on  her  face,  — 
The  chattel-stamp,  —  the  pariah-stain 

That  follows  still  her  hunted  race,  — 
The  curse  without  the  crime  of  Cain. 

How  shall  our  smooth-turned  phrase  relate 

The  little  suffering  outcast's  ail  ? 
Not  Lazarus  at  the  rich  man's  gate 

So  turned  the  rose-wreathed  revellers  pale. 


262  AVIS. 

Ah,  veil  the  living  death  from  sight 
That  wounds  our  beauty-loving  eye ! 

The  children  turn  in  selfish  fright, 
The  white-lipped  nurses  hurry  by. 

Take  her,  dread  Angel !    Break  in  love 
This  bruised  reed  and  make  it  thine  !  — 

No  voice  descended  from  above, 
But  Avis  answered,  "  She  is  mine." 

The  task  that  dainty  menials  spurn 

The  fair  young  girl  has  made  her  own  ; 

Her  heart  shall  teach,  her  hand  shall  learn, 
The  toils,  the  duties  yet  unknown. 

So  Love  and  Death  in  lingering  strife 
Stand  face  to  face  from  day  to  day, 

Still  battling  for  the  spoil  of  Life 
While  the  slow  seasons  creep  away. 

Love  conquers  Death ;  the  prize  is  won  ; 

See  to  her  joyous  bosom  pressed 
The  dusky  daughter  of  the  sun,  — 

The  bronze  against  the  marble  breast ! 


AVIS.  263 

Her  task  is  done  ;  no  voice  divine 

Has  crowned  her  deeds  with  saintly  fame. 

No  eye  can  see  the  aureole  shine 

That  rings  her  brow  with  heavenly  flame. 

Yet  what  has  holy  page  more  sweet, 
Or  what  had  woman's  love  more  fair, 

When  Mary  clasped  her  Saviour's  feet 
With  flowing  eyes  and  streaming  hair  ? 

Meek  child  of  sorrow,  walk  unknown, 

The  Angel  of  that  earthly  throng, 
And  let  thine  image  live  alone 

To  hallow  this  unstudied  song  ! 


IBIS,   HEE   BOOK, 


I  PRAT  thee  by  the  soul  of  her  that  bore  thee, 
By  thine  own  sister's  spirit  I  implore  thee, 
Deal  gently  with  the  leaves  that  lie  before  thee ! 

For  Iris  had  no  mother  to  infold  her, 
Nor  ever  leaned  upon  a  sister's  shoulder, 
Telling  the  twilight  thoughts  that  Nature  told  her. 

She  had  not  learned  the  mystery  of  awaking 
Those  chorded  keys  that  soothe  a  sorrow's  aching, 
Giving  the  dumb  heart  voice,  that  else  were  breaking. 

Yet  lived,  wrought,  suffered.     Lo,  the  pictured  token ! 
Why  should  her  fleeting  day-dreams  fade  unspoken, 
Like  daffodils  that  die  with  sheaths  unbroken  ? 

She  knew  not  love,  yet  lived  in  maiden  fancies,  — 

Walked  simply  clad,  a  queen  of  high  romances, 

And  talked  strange  tongues  with  angels  in  her  trances. 


IRIS,  IIER  BOOK.  265 

Twiu-souled  she  seemed,  a  twofold  nature  wearing,  — 

Sometimes  a  flashing  falcon  in  her  daring, 

Then  a  poor  mateless  dove  that  droops  despairing. 

Questioning  all  things :  Why  her  Lord  had  sent  her  ? 
What  were  these  torturing  gifts,  and  wherefore  lent  her  ? 
Scornful  as  spirit  fallen,  its  own  tormentor. 

And  then  all  tears  and  anguish :  Queen  of  Heaven, 
Sweet  Saints,  and  Thou  by  mortal  sorrows  riven, 
Save  me !  O,  save  me  !     Shall  I  die  forgiven  ? 

And  then Ah,  God !     But  nay,  it  little  matters  : 

Look  at  the  wasted  seeds  that  autumn  scatters, 
The  myriad  germs  that  Nature  shapes  and  shatters ! 

If  she   had Well !     She   longed,   and   knew   not 

wherefore. 

Had  the  world  nothing  she  might  live  to  care  for  ? 
No  second  self  to  say  her  evening  prayer  for  ? 

She  knew  the  marble  shapes  that  set  men  dreaming, 
Yet  with  her  shoulders  bare  and  tresses  streaming 
Showed  not  unlovely  to  her  simple  seeming. 
12 


266  IRIS,  HEK  BOOK. 

Yain  ?     Let  it  be  so  !     Nature  was  her  teacher. 
What  if  a  lonely  and  unsistered  creature 
Loved  her  own  harmless  gift  of  pleasing  feature, 

Saying,  unsaddened,  —  This  shall  soon  be  faded, 
And  double-hued  the  shining  tresses  braided, 
And  all  the  sunlight  of  the  morning  shaded  ? 

This  her  poor  book  is  full  of  saddest  follies, 

Of  tearful  smiles  and  laughing  melancholies, 
With  summer  roses  twined  and  wintry  hollies. 

In  the  strange  crossing  of  uncertain  chances, 
Somewhere,  beneath  some  maiden's  tear-dimmed  glances 
May  fall  her  little  book  of  dreams  and  fancies. 

Sweet  sister  !     Iris,  who  shall  never  name  thee, 
Trembling  for  fear  her  open  heart  may  shame  thee, 
Speaks  from  this  vision-haunted  page  to  claim  thee. 

Spare  her,  I  pray  thee  !     If  the  maid  is  sleeping, 
Peace  with  her  !•  she  has  had  her  hour  of  weeping. 
No  more  !     She  leaves  her  memory  in  thy  keeping. 


UNDER   THE   VIOLETS. 

HER  hands  are  cold ;  her  face  is  white ; 
No  more  her  pulses  come  and  go ; 

Her  eyes  are  shut  to  life  and  light ;  — 
Fold  the  white  vesture,  snow  on  snow, 
And  lay  her  where  the  violets  blow. 

But  not  beneath  a  graven  stone, 
To  plead  for  tears  with  alien  eyes ; 

A  slender  cross  of  wood  alone 
Shall  say,  that  here  a  maiden  lies 
In  peace  beneath  the  peaceful  skies. 

And  gray  old  trees  of  hugest  limb 

Shall  wheel  their  circling  shadows  round 

To  make  the  scorching  sunlight  dim 

That  drinks  the  greenness  from  the  ground, 
And  drop  their  dead  leaves  on  her  mound. 


268  UNDER  THE  VIOLETS. 

When  o'er  their  boughs  the  squirrels  run, 
And  through  their  leaves  the  robins  call, 

And,  ripening  in  the  autumn  sun, 
The  acorns  and  the  chestnuts  fall, 
Doubt  not  that  she  will  heed  them  all. 

For  her  the  morning  choir  shall  sing 
Its  matins  from  the  branches  high, 

And  every  minstrel-voice  of  Spring, 
That  trills  beneath  the  April  sky, 
Shall  greet  her  with  its  earliest  cry. 

When,  turning  round  their  dial-track, 
Eastward  the  lengthening  shadows  pass, 

Her  little  mourners,  clad  in  black, 

The  crickets,  sliding  through  the  grass, 
Shall  pipe  for  her  an  evening  mass. 

At  last  the  rootlets  of  the  trees 

Shall  find  the  prison  where  she  lies, 

And  bear  the  buried  dust  they  seize 
In  leaves  and  blossoms  to  the  skies. 
So  may  the  soul  that  warmed  it  rise ! 


UNDER  THE  VIOLETS.  2G9 

If  any,  born  of  kindlier  blood, 

Should  ask,  What  maiden  lies  below  ? 

Say  only  this :  A  tender  bud, 

That  tried  to  blossom  in  the  snow, 
Lies  withered  where  the  violets  blow. 


THE    PEG  USE. 


NOT  charity  we  ask, 
Nor  yet  thy  gift  refuse  ; 
Please  thy  light  fancy  with  the  easy  task 
Only  to  look  and  choose. 

The  little-heeded  toy 
That  wins  thy  treasured  gold 
May  be  the  dearest  memory,  holiest  joy, 
Of  coming  years  untold. 

Heaven  rains  on  every  heart, 
But  there  its  showers  divide, 
The  drops  of  mercy  choosing  as  they  part 
The  dark  or  glowing  side. 


THE  PROMISE.  271 

One  kindly  deed  may  turn 
The  fountain  of  thy  soul 

To  love's  sweet  day-star,  that  shall  o'er  thee  burn 
Long  as  its  currents  roll ! 

The  pleasures  thou  hast  planned,  — 
"Where  shall  their  memory  be 
"When  the  white  angel  with  the  freezing  hand 
Shall  sit  and  watch  by  thee  ? 

Living,  thou  dost  not  live, 
If  mercy's  spring  run  dry  ; 

What  Heaven  has  lent  thee  wilt  thou  freely  give, 
Dying,  thou  shalt  not  die ! 

HE  promised  even  so ! 
To  thee  His  lips  repeat,  — 
Behold,  the  tears  that  soothed  thy  sister's  woe 
Have  washed  thy  Master's  feet ! 

March  20,  1859. 


THE    LIVING   TEMPLE. 

NOT  in  the  world  of  light  alone, 
Where  God  has  built  his  blazing  throne. 
Nor  yet  alone  in  earth  below, 
With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go, 
And  endless  isles  of  sunlit  green, 
Is  all  thy  Maker's  glory  seen  : 
Look  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame,  — 
Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same  ! 

The  smooth,  soft  air  with  pulse-like  waves 
Flows  murmuring  through  its  hidden  caves, 
Whose  streams  of  brightening  purple  rush, 
Fired  with  a  new  and  livelier  blush, 
While  all  their  burden  of  decay 
The  ebbing  current  steals  away, 
And  red  with  Nature's  flame  they  start 
From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 


THE  LIVING   TEMPLE.  273 

No  rest  that  throbbing  slave  may  ask, 
Forever  quivering  o'er  his  task, 
While  far  and  wide  a  crimson  jet 
Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net 
Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 
The  flood  of  burning  life  divides, 
Then,  kindling  each  decaying  part, 
Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 

But  warmed  with  that  unchanging  flame 
Behold  the  outward  moving  frame, 
Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 
With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong, 
And  linked  to  reason's  guiding  reins 
By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains, 
Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 
Which  claims  it  as  the  master's  own. 

See  how  yon  beam  of  seeming  white 
Is  braided  out  of  seven-hued  light, 
Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 
By  any  chance  shall  break  astray. 
Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound, 
Arches  and  spirals  circling  round, 
Wakes  the  hushed  spirit  through  thine  ear 
With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear. 

12*  R 


274  THE  LIVING  TEMPLE. 

Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 
All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds, 
That  feels  sensation's  faintest  thrill, 
And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will ; 
Think  on  the  stormy  world  that  dwells 
Locked  in  its  dim  and  clustering  cells  ! 
The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheds 
Along  its  hollow  glassy  threads  ! 

O  Father  !  grant  thy  love  divine 
To  make  these  mystic  temples  thine  ! 
When  wasting  age  and  wearying  strife 
Have  sapped  the  leaning  walls  of  life, 
When  darkness  gathers  over  all, 
And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall, 
Take  the  poor  dust  thy  mercy  warms, 
And  mould  it  into  heavenly  forms  ! 


HYMN    Or    TKUST. 


O  LOVE  Divine,  that  stooped  to  share 
Our  sharpest  pang,  our  bitterest  tear, 

On  Thee  we  cast  each  earth-born  care, 
TVe  smile  at  pain  while  Thou  art  near ! 

Though  long  the  weary  way  we  tread, 
And  sorrow  crown  each  lingering  year, 

No  path  we  shun,  no  darkness  dread, 

Our  hearts  still  whispering,  Thou  art  near  ! 

When  drooping  pleasure  turns  to  grief, 
And  trembling  faith  is  changed  to  fear, 

The  murmuring  wind,  the  quivering  leaf, 
Shall  softly  tell  us,  Thou  art  near ! 


276  HYMN  OF  TRUST. 

On  Thee  we  fling  our  burdening  woe, 
O  Love  Divine,  forever  dear, 

Content  to  suffer  while  we  know, 
Living  and  dying,  Thou  art  near  ! 


A   SUN-DAY   HYMN, 


LORD  of  all  being  !  throned  afar, 
Thy  glory  flames  from  sun  and  star ; 
Centre  and  soul  of  every  sphere, 
Yet  to  each  loving  heart  how  near ! 

Sun  of  our  life,  thy  quickening  ray 
Sheds  on  our  path  the  glow  of  day  ; 
Star  of  our  hope,  thy  softened  light 
Cheers  the  long  watches  of  the  night. 

Our  midnight  is  thy  smile  withdrawn  ; 
Our  noontide  is  thy  gracious  dawn  ; 
Our  rainbow  arch  thy  mercy's  sign  ; 
All,  save  the  clouds  of  sin,  are  thine ! 


278  A  SUN-DAY  HYMN. 

Lord  of  all  life,  below,  above, 

Whose  light  is  truth,  whose  warmth  is  love, 

Before  thy  ever-blazing  throne 

We  ask  no  lustre  of  our  own. 

Grant  us  thy  truth  to  make  us  free, 
And  kindling  hearts  that  burn  for  thee, 
Till  all  thy  living  altars  claim 
One  holy  light,  one  heavenly  flame  ! 


A  VOICE  OP  THE  LOYAL  NOKTH 

NATIONAL  FAST,  JANUARY  4,   1861. 

WE  sing  "  Our  Country's  "  song  to-night 

With  saddened  voice  and  eye ; 
Her  banner  droops  in  clouded  light 

Beneath  the  wintry  sky. 
We'll  pledge  her  once  in  golden  wine 

Before  her  stars  have  set : 
Though  dim  one  reddening  orb  may  shine, 

We  have  a  Country  yet. 

'Twere  vain  to  sigh  o'er  errors  past, 

The  fault  of  sires  or  sons  ; 
Our  soldier  heard  the  threatening  blast, 

And  spiked  his  useless  guns  ; 
He  saw  the  star-wreathed  ensign  fall, 

By  mad  invaders  torn  ; 
But  saw  it  from  the  bastioned  wall 

That  laughed  their  ra<rc  to  scorn  ! 


280  A  VOICE  OF  THE  LOYAL  NORTH. 

What  though  their  angry  cry  is  flung 

Across  the  howling  wave,  — 
They  smite  the  air  with  idle  tongue 

The  gathering  storm  who  brave  ; 
Enough  of  speech  !  the  trumpet  rings  ; 

Be  silent,  patient,  calm,  — 
God  help  them  if  the  tempest  swings 

The  pine  against  the  palm ! 

Our  toilsome  years  have  made  us  tame  ; 

Our  strength  has  slept  unfelt ; 
The  furnace-fire  is  slow  to  flame 

That  bids  our  ploughshares  melt ; 
'T  is  hard  to  lose  the  bread  they  win 

In  spite  of  Nature's  frowns,  — 
To  drop  the  iron  threads  we  spin 

That  weave  our  web  of  towns, 

To  see  the  rusting  turbines  stand 

Before  the  emptied  flumes, 
To  fold  the  arms  that  flood  the  land 

With  rivers  from  their  looms,  — 
But  harder  still  for  those  who  learn 

The  truth  forgot  so  long  ; 
When  once  their  slumbering  passions  burn, 

The  peaceful  are  the  strong ! 


A  VOICE  OF  THE  LOYAL  NORTH.  281 

The  Lord  have  mercy  on  the  weak, 

And  calm  their  frenzied  ire, 
And  save  our  brothers  ere  they  shriek,     • 

"  We  played  with  Northern  fire  ! " 
The  eagle  hold  his  mountain  height,  — 

The  tiger  pace  his  den  ! 
Give  all  their  country,  each  his  right ! 

God  keep  us  all !     Amen  ! 


BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT  TOE  SISTER 
CAROLINE. 


SHE  has  gone, — she  has  left  us  in  passion  and  pride, — 
Our  stormy -browed  sister,  so  long  at  our  side ! 
She  has  torn  her  own  star  from  our  firmament's  glow, 
And  turned  on  her  brother  the  face  of  a  foe  ! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 
"We  can  never  forget  that  our  hearts  have  been  one,  — 
Our  foreheads  both  sprinkled  in  Liberty's  name, 
From  the  fountain  of  blood  with  the  finger  of  flame ! 

You  were  always  too  ready  to  fire  at  a  touch  ; 

But  we  said,  "  She  is  hasty,  —  she  does  not  mean  much." 

We  have  scowled,  when  you  uttered  some  turbulent 

threat ; 
But  Friendship  still  whispered,  "  Forgive  and  forget ! " 


BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT.  283 

Has  our  love  all  died  out?     Have  its  altars  grown  cold? 
Has  the  curse  come  at  last  which  the  fathers  foretold  ? 
Then  Nature  must  teach  us  the  strength  of  the  chain 
That  her  petulant  children  would  sever  in  vain. 

They  may  fight  till  the  buzzards  are  gorged  with  their 

spoil, 

Till  the  harvest  grows  black  as  it  rots  in  the  soil, 
Till  the  wolves  and  the  catamounts  troop  from  their 

caves, 
And  the  shark  tracks  the  pirate,  the  lord  of  the  waves : 

In  vain  is  the  strife !     When  its  fury  is  past, 
Their  fortunes  must  flow  in  one  channel  at  last, 
As  the  torrents  that  rush  from  the  mountains  of  snow 
Roll  mingled  in  peace  through  the  valleys  below. 

Our  Union  is  river,  lake,  ocean,  and  sky : 

Man  breaks  not  the  medal,  when  God  cuts  the  die  ! 

Though   darkened  with   sulphur,   though   cloven   with 

steel, 
The  blue  arch  will  brighten,  the  waters  will  heal ! 

O  Caroline,  Caroline,  child  of  the  sun, 

There  are  battles  with  Fate  that  can  never  be  won ! 


284  BROTHER  JONATHAN'S  LAMENT. 

The  star-flowering  banner  must  never  be  furled, 
For  its  blossoms  of  light  are  the  hope  of  the  world ! 

Go,  then,  our  rash  sister  !  afar  and  aloof, 

Run  wild  in  the  sunshine  away  from  our  roof; 

But  when  your  heart  aches  and  your  feet  have  grown 

sore, 
Remember  the  pathway  that  leads  to  our  door ! 

March  25,  1861. 


UNDER  THE  WASHINGTON  ELM,  CAMBEIDGE. 

APRIL  27,  1861. 

EIGHTY  years  have  passed,  and  more, 

Since  under  the  brave  old  tree 
Our  fathers  gathered  in  arms,  and  swore 
They  would  follow  the  sign  their  banners  bore, 

And  fight  till  the  land  was  free. 


Half  of  their  work  was  done, 

Half  is  left  to  do,  — 

Cambridge,  and  Concord,  and  Lexington  ! 
When  the  battle  is  fought  and  won, 

What  shall  be  told  of  you  ? 

Hark  !  —  't  is  the  south-wind  moans,  — 

Who  are  the  martyrs  down  ? 
Ah,  the  marrow  was  true  in  your  children's  bones 
That  sprinkled  with  blood  the  cursed  stones 

Of  the  murder-haunted  town  ! 


28 G  UNDER  THE  WASHINGTON  ELM. 

What  if  the  storm-clouds  blow  ? 

What  if  the  green  leaves  fall  ? 
Better  the  crashing  tempest's  throe 
Than  the  army  of  worms  that  gnawed  below  ; 

Trample  them  one  and  all ! 

Then,  when  the  battle  is  won, 
And  the  land  from  traitors  free, 
Our  children  shall  tell  of  the  strife  begun 
When  Liberty's  second  April  sun 

Was  bright  on  our  brave  old  tree  ! 


INTERNATIONAL    ODE, 

OUR    FATHERS'    LAND.* 

GOD  bless  our  Fathers'  Land  ! 
Keep  her  in  heart  and  hand 

One  with  our  own  ! 
From  all  her  foes  defend, 
Be  her  brave  People's  Friend, 
On  all  her  realms  descend, 

Protect  her  Throne  ! 

Father,  with  loving  care 
Guard  Thou  her  kingdom's  Heir, 
Guide  all  his  ways  : 

*  Sung  in  unison  by  twelve  hundred  children  of  the  public 
schools,  at  the  visit  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  to  Boston,  October 
18,  1860.  Air,  "  God  save  the  Queen." 


INTERNATIONAL  ODE. 

Thine  arm  his  shelter  be, 
From  him  by  land  and  sea 
Bid  storm  and  danger  flee, 
Prolong  his  days ! 

Lord,  let  War's  tempest  cease, 
Fold  the  whole  Earth  in  peace 

Under  thy  wings ! 
Make  all  Thy  nations  one, 
All  hearts  beneath  the  sun, 
Till  Thou  shalt  reign  alone, 

Great  King  of  kings  ! 


FKEEDOM,    OUK   QUEEN. 

LAND  where  the  banners  wave  last  in  the  sun, 
Blazoned  with  star-clusters,  many  hi  one, 
Floating  o'er  prairie  and  mountain  and  sea ; 
Hark  !  't  is  the  voice  of  thy  children  to  thee  ! 

Here  at  thine  altar  our  vows  we  renew 
Still  in  thy  cause  to  be  loyal  and  true,  — 
True  to  thy  flag  on  the  field  and  the  wave, 
Living  to  honor  it,  dying  to  save  ! 

Mother  of  heroes  !  if  perfidy's  blight 
Fall  on  a  star  in  thy  garland  of  light, 
Sound  but  one  bugle-blast !     Lo  !  at  the  sign 
Armies  all  panoplied  wheel  into  line  ! 
13 


290  FREEDOM,  OUR  QUEEN. 

Hope  of  the  world !  thou  hast  broken  its  chains,  — 
Wear  thy  bright  arms  while  a  tyrant  remains, 
Stand  for  the  right  till  the  nations  shall  own 
Freedom  their  sovereign,  with  Law  for  her  throne  ! 

Freedom  !  sweet  Freedom  !  our  voices  resound, 
Queen  by  God's  blessing,  unsceptred,  uncrowned  ! 
Freedom,  sweet  Freedom,  our  pulses  repeat, 
Warm  with  her  life-blood,  as  long  as  they  beat ! 

Fold  the  broad  banner-stripes  over  her  breast,  — 
Crown  her  with  star-jewels  Queen  of  the  West ! 
Earth  for  her  heritage,  God  for  her  friend, 
She  shall  reign  over  us,  world  without  end  ! 


ARMY  HYMN. 

"  Old  Hundred." 

O  LORD  of  Hosts  !  Almighty  King  ! 
Behold  the  sacrifice  we  bring  ! 
To  every  arm  Thy  strength  impart, 
Thy  spirit  shed  through  every  heart ! 

Wake  in  our  breasts  the  living  fires, 
The  holy  faith  that  warmed  our  sires  ; 
Thy  hand  hath  made  our  Nation  free  ; 
To  die  for  her  is  serving  Thee. 

Be  Thou  a  pillared  flame  to  show 
The  midnight  snare,  the  silent  foe  ; 
And  when  the  battle  thunders  loud, 
Still  guide  us  in  its  moving  cloud. 


292  AEMY  HYMN. 

God  of  all  Nations !  Sovereign  Lord  1 
In  Thy  dread  name  we  draw  the  sword, 
We  lift  the  starry  flag  on  high 
That  fills  with  light  our  stormy  sky. 

From  treason's  rent,  from  murder's  stain, 
Guard  Thou  its  folds  till  Peace  shall  reign, 
Till  fort  and  field,  till  shore  and  sea, 
Join  our  loud  anthem,  PRAISE  TO  THEE  ! 


PAETING    HYMN. 

"  Dundee" 

FATHER  of  Mercies,  Heavenly  Friend, 
We  seek  Thy  gracious  throne ; 

To  Thee  our  faltering  prayers  ascend, 
Our  fainting  hearts  are  known ! 


o 


From  blasts  that  chill,  from  suns  that  smite, 
From  every  plague  that  harms  ; 

In  camp  and  march,  in  siege  and  fight, 
Protect  our  men-at-arms ! 

Though  from  our  darkened  lives  they  take 
What  makes  our  life  most  dear, 

We  yield  them  for  their  country's  sake 
With  no  relenting  tear. 
13* 


294  PARTING  HYMN. 

Our  blood  their  flowing  veins  will  shed, 
Their  wounds  our  breasts  will  share  ; 

O,  save  us  from  the  woes  we  dread, 
Or  grant  us  strength  to  bear ! 

Let  each  unhallowed  cause  that  brings 
The  stern  destroyer  cease, 

Thy  flaming  angel  fold  his  wings, 
And  seraphs  whisper  Peace  ! 

Thine  are  the  sceptre  and  the  sword, 
Stretch  forth  Thy  mighty  hand,  — 

Reign  Thou  our  kingless  nation's  Lord, 
Rule  Thou  our  throneless  land  ! 


THE    FLOWER    OF    LIBERTY, 

WHAT  flower  is  this  that  greets  the  morn, 

Its  hues  from  Heaven  so  freshly  born  ? 

With  burning  star  and  flaming  band 

It  kindles  all  the  sunset  land  : 

O  tell  us  what  its  name  may  be,  — 

Is  this  the  Flower  of  Liberty  ? 

It  is  the  banner  of  the  free, 

The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty. 

In  savage  Nature's  far  abode 

Its  tender  seed  our  fathers  sowed  ; 

The  storm-winds  rocked  its  swelling  bud, 

Its  opening  leaves  were  streaked  with  blood, 

Till  lo  !  earth's  tyrants  shook  to  see 

The  full-blown  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 

Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 

The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty. 


296  THE  FLOWER   OF   LIBERTY. 

Behold  its  streaming  rays  unite, 

One  mingling  flood  of  braided  light,  — 

The  red  that  fires  the  Southern  rose, 

With  spotless  white  from  Northern  snows, 

And,  spangled  o'er  its  azure,  see 

The  sister  Stars  of  Liberty  ! 

Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty  ! 

The  blades  of  heroes  fence  it  round, 
Where'er  it  springs  is  holy  ground ; 
From  tower  and  dome  its  glories  spread ; 
It  waves  where  lonely  sentries  tread  ; 
It  makes  the  land  as  ocean  free, 
And  plants  an  empire  on  the  sea  ! 
Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  Flower  of  Liberty. 

Thy  sacred  Ieaves5  fair  Freedom's  flower, 
Shall  ever  float  on  dome  and  tower, 
To  all  their  heavenly  colors  true, 
In  blackening  frost  or  crimson  dew,  — 
And  God  love  us  as  we  love  thee, 
Thrice  holy  Flower  of  Liberty ! 
Then  hail  the  banner  of  the  free, 
The  starry  FLOWER  OF  LIBERTY. 


TIE   SWEET   LITTLE   MAN, 

DEDICATED   TO   THE   STAY-AT-HOME   RANGERS. 

Now,  while  our  soldiers  are  fighting  our  battles, 

Each  at  his  post  to  do  all  that  he  can, 
Down  among  rebels  and  contraband  chattels, 

What  are  you  doing,  my  sweet  little  man  ? 

All  the  brave  boys  under  canvas  are  sleeping, 
All  of  them  pressing  to  march  with  the  van, 

Far  from  the  home  where  their  sweethearts  are  weeping ; 
What  are  you  waiting  for,  sweet  little  man? 

You  with  the  terrible  warlike  moustaches, 

Fit  for  a  colonel  or  chief  of  a  clan, 
You  with  the  waist  made  for  sword-belts  and  sashes, 

Where  are  your  shoulder-straps,  sweet  little  man  ? 


298  THE  SWEET  LITTLE  MAN. 

Bring  him  the  buttonless  garment  of  woman  ! 

Cover  his  face  lest  it  freckle  and  tan  ; 
Muster  the  Apron-string  Guards  on  the  Common, 

That  is  the  corps  for  the  sweet  little  man  ! 

Give  him  for  escort  a  file  of  young  misses, 
Each  of  them  armed  with  a  deadly  rattan  ; 

They  shall  defend  him  from  laughter  and  hisses, 
Aimed  by  low  boys  at  the  sweet  little  man. 

All  the  fair  maidens  about  him  shall  cluster, 
Pluck  the  white  feathers  from  bonnet  and  fan, 

Make  him  a  plume  like  a  turkey-wing  duster, — 
That  is  the  crest  for  the  sweet  little  man  ! 

O,  but  the  Apron-string  Guards  are  the  fellows  ! 

Drilling  each  day  since  our  troubles  began,  — 
"  Handle  your  walking-sticks  ! "   "  Shoulder  umbrellas ! " 

That  is  the  style  for  the  sweet  little  man. 

Have  we  'a  nation  to  save  ?     In  the  first  place 
Saving  ourselves  is  the  sensible  plan,  — 

Surely  the  spot  where  there 's  shooting 's  the  worst  place 
Where  I  can  stand,  says  the  sweet  little  man. 


THE   SWEET   LITTLE  MAN.  299 

Catch  me  confiding  my  person  with  strangers  ! 

Think  how  the  cowardly  Bull- Runners  ran  ! 
In  the  brigade  of  the  Stay-at-home  Rangers 

Marches  my  corps,  says  the  sweet  little  man. 

Such  was  the  stuff  of  the  Malakoff-takers, 

Such  were  the  soldiers  that  scaled  the  Redan ; 

Truculent  housemaids  and  bloodthirsty  Quakers, 
Brave  not  the  wrath  of  the  sweet  little  man  ! 

Yield  him  the  sidewalk,  ye  nursery  maidens ! 

Sauve  qui  pent  !  Bridget,  and  right  about !  Ann  ;  — 
Fierce  as  a  shark  in  a  school  of  menhadens, 

See  him  advancing,  the  sweet  little  man  ! 

When  the  red  flails  of  the  battle-field's  threshers 
Beat  out  the  continent's  wheat  from  its  bran, 

Wliile  the  wind  scatters  the  chaffy  seceshers, 
What  will  become  of  our  sweet  little  man  ? 

When  the  brown  soldiers  come  back  from  the  borders, 
How  will  he  look  while  his  features  they  scan  ? 

How  will  he  feel  when  he  gets  marching  orders, 
Signed  by  his  lady  love  ?  sweet  little  man  ! 


300  THE  SWEET  LITTLE  MAN. 

Fear  not  for  him,  though  the  rebels  expect  him,  — 
Life  is  too  precious  to  shorten  its  span ; 

Woman  her  broomstick  shall  raise  to  protect  him, 
Will  she  not  fight  for  the  sweet  little  man  ! 

Now  then,  nine  cheers  for  the  Stay-at-home  Ranger ! 

Blow  the  great  fish-horn  and  beat  the  big  pan ! 
First  in  the  field  that  is  farthest  from  danger, 

Take  your  white-feather  plume,  sweet  little  man  ! 


YI\TE    LA    FKANCE 


A    SENTIMENT   OFFERED    AT   THE    DINNER   TO   H.   I.   H.    THE   PRINCE 
NAPOLEON,   AT   THE   REVERE   HOUSE,    SEPT.    25,    1861. 


THE  land  of  sunshine  and  of  song  I 

Her  name  your  hearts  divine  ; 
To  her  the  banquet's  vows  belong 

Whose  breasts  have  poured  its  wine ; 
Our  trusty  friend,  our  true  ally 

Through  varied  change  and  chance : 
So,  fill  your  flashing  goblets  high,  — 

I  give  you,  VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

Above  our  hosts  in  triple  folds 

The  self-same  colors  spread, 
Where  Valor's  faithful  arm  upholds 

The  blue,  the  white,  the  red  ; 
Alike  each  nation's  glittering  crest 

Reflects  the  morning's  glance,  — 
Twin  eagles,  soaring  east  and  west : 

Once  more,  then,  VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 


302  VIVE  LA  FRANCE! 

Sister  in  trial !  who  shall  count 

Thy  generous  friendship's  claim, 
"Whose  blood  ran  mingling  in  the  fount 

That  gave  our  land  its  name, 
Till  Yorktown  saw  in  blended  line 

Our  conquering  arms  advance, 
And  victory's  double  garlands  twine 

Our  banners  ?     VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

0  land  of  heroes  !  in  our  need 

One  gift  from  Heaven  we  crave 
To  stanch  these  wounds  that  vainly  bleed, 

The  wise  to  lead  the  brave  ! 
Call  back  one  Captain  of  thy  past 

From  glory's  marble  trance, 
Whose  name  shall  be  a  bugle-blast 

To  rouse  us  !     VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 

Pluck  Conde's  baton  from  the  trench, 

Wake  up  stout  Charles  Martel, 
Or  find  some  woman's  hand  to  clench 

The  sword  of  La  Pucelle  ! 
Give  us  one  hour  of  old  Turenne,  — 

One  lift  of  Bayard's  lance,  — 
Nay,  call  Marengo's  Chief  again 

To  lead  us  !     VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 


VIVE  LA  FRANCE!  303 

Ah,  hush !  our  welcome  Guest  shall  hear 

But  sounds  of  peace  and  joy ; 
No  angry  echo  vex  thine  ear, 

Fair  Daughter  of  Savoy  ! 
Once  more  !  the  land  of  arms  and  arts. 

Of  glory,  grace,  romance  ; 
Her  love  lies  warm  in  all  our  hearts : 

God  bless  her  !     VIVE  LA  FRANCE  ! 


UNION    AND    LIBEETY. 

FLAG  of  the  heroes  who  left  us  their  glory, 

Borne  through  their  battle-fields'  thunder  and  flame, 
Blazoned  in  song  and  illumined  in  story, 
Wave  o'er  us  all  who  inherit  their  fame  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright, 
Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain  to  shore, 
While  through  the  sounding  sky 
Loud  rings  the  Nation's  cry,  — 
UNION  AND  LIBERTY  !  ONE  EVERMORE  ! 

Light  of  our  firmament,  guide  of  our  Nation, 
Pride  of  her  children,  and  honored  afar, 

Let  the  wide  beams  of  thy  full  constellation 
Scatter  each  cloud  that  would  darken  a  star  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 


UNION  AND  LIBERTY.  305 

Empire  unsceptred !  what  foe  shall  assail  thee, 
Bearing  the  standard  of  Liberty's  van  ? 

Think  not  the  God  of  thy  fathers  shall  fail  thee, 
Striving  with  men  for  the  birthright  of  man ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 

Yet  if,  by  madness  and  treachery  blighted, 

Dawns  the  dark  hour  when  the  sword  thou  must  draw, 

Then  with  the  arms  of  thy  millions  united, 
Smite  the  bold  traitors  to  Freedom  and  Law ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright,  etc. 

Lord  of  the  Universe  !  shield  us  and  guide  us, 

Trusting  thee  always,  through  shadow  and  sun ! 
Thou  hast  united  us,  who  shall  divide  us  ? 
Keep  us,  O  keep  us  the  MANY  IN  ONE  ! 
Up  with  our  banner  bright, 
Sprinkled  with  starry  light, 
Spread  its  fair  emblems  from  mountain  to  shore, 
While  through  the  sounding  sky 
Loud  rings  the  Nation's  cry,  — 
UNION  AND  LIBERTY  !  ONE  EVERMORE  ! 


NOTE  TO  "AGNES." 


THE  story  of  Sir  Harry  Frankland  and  Agnes  Surraige  is 
told  in  the  ballad  with  a  very  strict  adhesion  to  the  facts. 
These  were  obtained  from  information  afforded  me  by  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Webster  of  Hopkinton,  in  company  with 
whom  I  visited  the  Frankland  Mansion  in  that  town,  then 
standing;  from  a  very  interesting  Memoir,  by  the  Rever 
end  Ellas  Xason  of  Medford,  not  yet  published ;  and  from 
the  manuscript  diary  of  Sir  Harry,  or  more  properly  Sir 
Charles  Henry  Frankland,  now  in  the  library  of  the  Mas 
sachusetts  Historical  Society. 

At  the  time  of  the  visit  referred  to,  old  Julia  was  living,* 
and  on  our  return  we  called  at  the  house  where  she  resided. 
Her  account  is  little  more  than  paraphrased  in  the  poem. 
If  the  incidents  are  treated  with  a  certain  liberality  at  the 
close  of  the  fifth  part,  the  essential  fact  that  Agnes  rescued 
Sir  Harry  from  the  ruins  after  the  earthquake,  and  their 
subsequent  marriage  as  related,  may  be  accepted  as  literal 
truth.  So  with  regard  to  most  of  the  trifling  details  which 
are  given  ;  they  are  taken  from  the  record. 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  the  Reverend  Mr.  Nason's  Memoir 

*  She  is  living  now,  June  10th,  1861. 


308  NOTE  TO  "AGNES." 

will  be  published,  that  this  extraordinary  romance  of  our 
sober  New  England  life  may  become  familiar  to  that  class 
of  readers  who  prefer  a  rigorous  statement  to  an  embel 
lished  narrative.  It  will  be  found  to  contain  many  histori 
cal  facts  and  allusions  which  add  much  to  its  romantic 
interest. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted  that  the  Frankland  Mansion 
no  longer  exists.  It  was  accidentally  burned  on  the  23d 
of  January,  1858,  a  year  or  two  after  the  first  sketch  of 
this  ballad  was  written.  A  visit  to  it  was  like  stepping 
out  of  the  century  into  the  years  before  the  Revolution. 
A  new  house,  similar  in  plan  and  arrangements  to  the 
old  one,  has  been  built  upon  its  site,  and  the  terraces, 
the  clump  of  box,  and  the  lilacs,  doubtless  remain  to  bear 
witness  to  the  truth  of  this  story. 


THE    END. 


Cambridge:  Stereotyped  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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